


bright morning stars

by sadbutchhours



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: 1940s, AU, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Coming of Age, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, is basically the overarching theme, myrtle is jewish! that's neat, repressed teenage gay friendships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 42,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28175757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadbutchhours/pseuds/sadbutchhours
Summary: The year is 1943, and a young Cordelia Goode is going through all the trials and tribulations of adolescence in a small farming town in rural Quebec. Seeking an escape from her increasingly turbulent home life, she finds friendship in the peculiar girl who lives in the woods down the road.(or, the 1940s teenager au)
Relationships: Misty Day/Cordelia Foxx | Cordelia Goode
Comments: 72
Kudos: 95





	1. sunshine as seen through closed eyelids

**Author's Note:**

> hey y'all! welcome to The Fic. i started this for nanowrimo 2020 expecting to be done with the story by the end, and while i did reach my goal i was nowhere Near done with the plot. so. we kept going!
> 
> here's some things to know:  
> -as i post this i'm only about halfway through writing the actual thing, and i'm gonna try my best to pace myself in posting so that i don't catch up to myself and leave y'all hanging. i'll TRY.  
> -hard to say exactly how long this is gonna be? i'm envisioning 22-25 chapters and around 50-100k words  
> -because i am A Nerd i actually came up with a song that goes with every chapter. the chapters are named after lyrics from the songs & the song name will be in the notes so you can listen... or whatever haha... it's cool i'm cool...  
> -drop me a line on twitter @sadbutchhours ! i always want more friends.  
> -thanks for clicking, y'all. and thanks even more if you read it. this fic is my baby & i'm kind of nervous to put it out in the world but also that's what it was made for!
> 
> so... yes! chapter 1! here we go! no specific tws for this chapter, i don't think.
> 
> hope u enjoy. love u. thank u.

There were a few weeks each year where the sun, apologetic after months of sleet and snow, was generous enough to bathe the world in warmth and light for just a week or two before disappearing until summer began in earnest. Springtime wasn’t particularly inspiring in Charlevoix -- things bloomed, sure, but more with a grim determination than anything else -- but those nine or ten days were glory itself. It was Cordelia’s favorite time of year (save for the snow that melted suddenly and flooded the shed if they weren’t careful), and it was one of those early April afternoons that she found herself stuck at the dining room table, desperately wishing she were out in the sunshine.

She tried to focus on her work. She had been trying, and mostly succeeding, for the past three hours. But there were only so many daffodils a child could trim before she was bored out of her mind, and soon Cordelia’s mother noticed her glancing out the window. “Wishing we were out of doors?”

Cordelia took a deep breath, careful not to let it sound like a sigh. “It’s just so  _ nice _ out.”

“You know what’s nice?” Her mother set down the flower she’d been peeling leaves from. “Finishing our work early enough to go to bed at a reasonable hour.”

“Can I go once I’ve finished my pile?” They had set up a kind of assembly line, Cordelia trimming the daffodils to a particular height and Fiona removing the leaves, and Cordelia was nearly done. If she finished these she could go out and be in the orchard for the sunset.

Fiona pressed her lips together in a sarcastic smile and returned to her work. “Once you’ve finished your pile you’ll help me with the ones you’ve just trimmed. And then I’d appreciate some help with dinner --”

“But I’ve been inside  _ all day,” _ Cordelia whined. “It won’t be like this again until nearly June.”

“I’m sorry,” said Fiona, not sounding sorry at all. “If I don’t get the chicken in the oven in time none of us will be eating dinner, and while you may be skinny as a pole your father has had an extremely long day and I just can’t deal with him when he’s frustrated like that.”

“What if I make dinner while you do the leaves?” Cordelia was desperate to be out of this room at the very least. Even if she couldn’t go outside, perhaps she could at least get out into the kitchen to get a break from her mother’s nagging.

“Cooking dinner by yourself? Unsupervised?” Fiona let out an angry sound that sounded like it was meant to be a laugh. “Absolutely not, Cordelia, you’d burn the whole house down.”

Cordelia bit back a sarcastic retort, not wanting to jeopardize any chance she still had at enjoying any part of the day outside. For several minutes there was silence as Cordelia worked methodically through her pile, testing the limits of the shears as she tried to cut two or three daffodils at once under her mother’s wary eye. But Cordelia was careful, and try as she might Fiona couldn’t find fault worth mentioning at the blossoms she was handed. 

After what felt like another hour, Cordelia placed the final flower in front of her mother but didn’t move. She had to try one more time. “Can I at least take my dinner out to the orchard?”

She watched Fiona stare down at her handiwork, inhaling slowly without looking at her daughter. Then, finally: “If you’re back before dark.”

Cordelia wanted to grin, to rush and hug her mother. But Fiona had already picked up another flower and begun to strip it of its leaves, so Cordelia merely smiled and did the same.

She loved being out in the orchard at sunset. This time of year the nectarines were just little greenish-yellow things, not yet tawny and soft, but at just the right time the sun turned them orange and gold as if in a premonition of what they would become. Cordelia had taken her plate to her favorite spot, the one where two trees bent up and away from each other as if beckoning Cordelia to sit and lean against one. Her chicken breast had grown cold on the way out here, but Cordelia didn’t mind. She’d eat it frozen for every meal if it meant she could stay here for longer. In the orchard, away from her mother’s anger and her father’s sadness, she could finally  _ think. _ Lately it had been too cold at night for her to get out here, and the snow had made it an uncomfortable place to sit down. But now Cordelia could sit and balance the plate on her knees as she looked up at the clouds. She could pick out shapes in them sometimes, when she was feeling fanciful. Today they were stretched across the sky in dimpled sheets, like little torn-up cotton balls. The sky looked to Cordelia like the chicken skins she and Fiona had just removed a few hours ago.  _ Not quite the same color as chicken, _ she thought, and laughed to herself at the idea of a blue chicken waddling about.

The sound felt freeing. Cordelia sometimes talked to herself here, had imaginary arguments with her parents, dared to say aloud the words she heard her classmates get punished for saying. They were funny in her mouth, sharp and powerful like a weapon she wasn’t sure how to wield. She liked the way they felt, the way they sounded aloud. They bent over the leaves around her and disintegrated into the wind.

Today she started by saying, “I don’t see why I have to spend the day inside with you instead of out with Daddy. He could use the help.”

_ So could I, _ she pictured her mother saying, and it was true. Cordelia never liked to give herself an easy argument to refute. It was just too easy.

“Then why don’t I split my time? I’ll spend the morning out in the field and then I’ll come spend time with you in the afternoon. Better yet, I’ll switch off days.”

_ The field’s not a place for a girl like you in winter. You’re small. You’d just be in the way. _

“I’m nearly fourteen. I help Daddy during planting and harvesting season, why not in between?”

She wasn’t sure what her mother would say to that. Which didn’t mean that was where she’d win -- she had learned over the years that her mother could pull the strangest cards from her pockets at times. And anyway Cordelia didn’t think of these as practice for some grand confrontation in the future. She found it easier to allow her mother to do what she wanted, and she was generally fair as long as Cordelia was polite about it, like today when she’d allowed Cordelia to come here alone for dinner.

The sun slipped between the trees, and those magical few minutes began, where everything turned brilliantly reddish-gold and Cordelia could close her eyes and believe it was autumn. She let her eyes flutter shut, and the sun lit the back of her eyelids up that same color. 

The most brilliant moment was only that -- a moment -- and Cordelia knew there would be hell to pay if she stepped through the threshold even a second after the sun had dipped behind the mountains. She squinted into the sun, Cordelia rising as it was setting, and she tried to imagine the way she might look right now, with the light on her face and her hair. Was she beautiful? At thirteen she had never so much as spoken with a boy alone. The other girls she knew were bolder, and prettier too, growing out of the frocks they’d worn as children and into pretty blouses and skirts and dresses with cinched waists. She was rather jealous of the ones who were allowed to curl their hair, or cut it short like Hedy Lamarr. Cordelia’s own hair hung flat from her scalp like a towel draped over her head, the color of wheat flour and just as dry. She’d tried curling it, once, but when she took the curls out they looked so ridiculous that her mother had made her go wash them out straight away.

Her mother’s hair was beautiful, blonde and silky with a natural curve in it that fell to her shoulders. She kept it pulled tightly back most of the time, as did Cordelia.  _ We’ve no use for looking pretty, _ she’d said.  _ No one’s looking at us, you and me. _

Selfishly Cordelia wished someone  _ would _ look at her in the way she knew girls were meant to be looked at. The older boys she knew looked at some of the girls like that, touched them sometimes, kissed them even. Even at thirteen Cordelia wanted to be kissed. 

As she emerged from the orchard and into one of the larger flower patches, she took another moment to be  _ still. _ Out in the open the last rays of sunshine warmed her back and the crown of her head. She rolled up the sleeves of her shirt and stretched them out to feel the sun on them. A small sound left her mouth without her permission, and out of the corner of her eye she saw movement among the marigolds.

Cordelia clenched her jaw and moved to inspect it. It wasn’t uncommon to have birds or mice rustling around among the flowers, and as long as they didn’t gnaw on the stems or petals it wasn’t usually an issue. But this had looked bigger, as if something the size of a cat were rooting around. Had she left the door open and let Duke Ellington out? She hoped not. Last time that had happened they’d been unable to find him for days, and Cordelia had missed nearly a week’s worth of trips to the orchard.

It wasn’t the cat, actually. It was a small brown-and-white dog, a spaniel, eagerly digging up Cordelia’s precious marigolds.

“Salem!”

The shout came from Cordelia’s left, within the woods bordering the farm that Cordelia had never explored except one or twice to have a picnic when she was very young. She didn’t much remember what they looked like.

“SALEM!” came the voice again, more forceful this time, and closer. The dog -- Salem? -- stopped its furious assault and looked in its direction. Cordelia did too, and the brush quivered for a moment before a girl about Cordelia’s age stepped out into the clearing.

“There you are, little rascal. What kind of trouble did you get yourself into this time?” said the girl, clambering over the white fence. She wasn’t wearing anything like what Cordelia had seen a girl of her age wear before. She was wearing riding pants, but looser, bunched at her mid-calf, and a billowy white blouse. Her long blonde hair flowed down her back in messy waves, and she was altogether covered in a thin layer of dust and dirt. She looked as if she’d been through a hurricane.

Salem, for his part, turned and bounded over to the girl, jumping up on her legs and letting out happy little yips. The girl bent down to scoop him up in her arms, and Cordelia saw what looked like half a dozen necklaces dangling from her neck.

“Um.” Cordelia took her hands out of her pockets, found she didn’t know where to put them, and replaced them. “Hi.”

The girl looked up and seemed to notice Cordelia for the first time. “Oh -- hi!” She took a step towards Cordelia, into the fading sunlight, and it lit up her pale blue eyes. “I’m so sorry about Salem. Are your flowers alright?”

Cordelia bit her lip and looked down at the damage. The patch had been nearly destroyed, but there were a few plants left, and Cordelia was not really one to get angry anyway. “Oh, yes, it’s no trouble. Marigold seeds are easy enough to come by.”

“Marigolds, huh? Thought so.”

“Yes.” Cordelia smiled. “They’re my favorite.”

“Your favorite? Gosh, I’m sorry!” The girl bent down to pick up a bloom that wasn’t completely shredded, never once losing control of the dog as it struggled in her arms.

“Oh no, it’s really fine --” Cordelia started, but the girl held the flower out to her with such an earnest expression that she couldn’t help but smile. She took it in one hand and pocketed it. “Thank you.”

“I don’t know how he got away so quickly,” said the girl. “We were chasin’ squirrels down by the creek. He’s faster than me, I guess. Aren’t you, buddy? Just too quick for me.” She scratched Salem under his chin, and he burrowed into her hand, looking at Cordelia with wide brown eyes.

“He’s adorable,” Cordelia said. “I can’t even be angry with him.”

“Right? He’s impossible.” She pressed a kiss to the spaniel’s forehead and gazed around the clearing. “Nice farm you got here.”

“Thank you.” It wasn’t in its most glorious state, yet, but things were starting to bloom. Like the daffodils, for example, though they’d been mostly uprooted by now, leaving a patch of bare upturned earth where they’d been. “You should see it in June.”

“Maybe I’ll come back, then.”

This was new. Cordelia had never spoken to someone and had them ask to see her again. It felt horribly depressing to realize as much as it sent her heart rushing up her windpipe thinking about it, and when it came up her throat her mouth said, “Please.”

The girl’s eyebrows moved down and together, just a little, and one side of her mouth pulled to the side as if she were suppressing a laugh. “Sorry?”

“I mean.” Cordelia blushed. “I’d love for you to come back. Before June, even.”

“Oh.” She let the laugh free. It was pure joy, a small child sledding down a hill. “Yes, I’d like that as well.”

They faced each other for a moment. Cordelia glanced to the side and saw the pinkish glow of the sky quickly darkening. “I should be getting back home,” she said, at the same time the girl said, “My name’s Misty.”

“Oh,” said Cordelia. “Misty.”

The name fit her. Though it wouldn’t yet be muggy and humid for several weeks, Misty’s hair was frizzy and her face shone with sweat and the last of the sunset reflecting off her cheeks. She seemed to disturb the air around her as if she were swimming through it.

After a moment too long Cordelia blinked and said, “And… Cordelia is my name.”

Misty’s eyebrows moved again, but this time she let herself smile. “I’ll see you later, Cordelia,” she said, bending over to set Salem on the ground. “Sorry again about your flowers.” She turned and hopped the fence, waving over her shoulder at Cordelia before disappearing into the trees, Salem following close behind. 

It was only after she was gone that Cordelia realized she hadn’t set a time or place for them to meet next. She wasn’t used to ending a conversation with someone expecting to see them again --  _ planning _ to, even. As she headed back home, speeding up as the sky swelled and darkened around her, she cursed herself for being so foolish. Her one chance to make a friend, and she’d blown it. She’d just have to wait for Misty to show up at her door.

The moment she stepped into the house her mother was rolling out of the kitchen towards her with a kitchen sponge still in her hand. She stopped herself a few feet away and hissed, “Care to explain yourself?”

Cordelia clasped her hands together behind her back. “I’m sorry, Mama. There was a -- a dog in the field. Digging up the marigolds. I had to chase it off.”

“The marigolds?” 

Cordelia nodded. 

“Are they ruined?”

Cordelia paused, struggling to walk the line between downplaying the truth and outright lying. “Not all of them. I’ll buy some seeds tomorrow after school,” she promised.

Fiona clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “If you’d come back earlier you would have caught it sooner.” She turned her chair around and rolled back into the kitchen. Cordelia followed, slipping around her mother to begin drying the dishes. “Whose was it?”

“The dog?”

“Yes, the damn dog,” Fiona snipped. Cordelia felt the curse echo in her sternum.

“Oh. No one. It was a stray.” She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to hide Misty’s existence from her mother, and immediately felt guilty. “I think. At least, I didn’t see anyone.” Another lie, but not a decisive one.

Fiona set aside the plate she was scrubbing and wheeled back. “Would you finish the dishes for me, darling?”

It wasn’t a request. “Yes, Mama.”

“Thank you.” As she rolled past Cordelia and out of the kitchen Fiona grabbed her daughter’s bicep and squeezed, gently, in a rare moment of physical affection. “And you should be eating more chicken, too. You’re too skinny.”

“Yes, Mama.”

She rolled up her sleeves and finished washing the dishes, careful not to make too much noise and wake her father. He hated being disturbed, and Cordelia already knew he’d be angry with her for letting the marigolds be destroyed. And it  _ was _ her fault. Cordelia couldn’t deny that. She’d been distracted by the color of sunshine behind her eyelids and the fantasies of maturity and modernity, of freedom.

In the few moments they’d spent together Misty seemed to Cordelia like everything Cordelia was jealous of, and simultaneously none of it at all. She was cool just in the way that she didn’t realize it, beautiful without being narcissistic about it. And she didn’t even wear fancy clothes or curl her hair (not that she needed to). She was different even from the rebels Cordelia knew at school, the ones who listened to jazz music and supposedly snuck out into the woods at night to smoke some kind of cigarette with a funny name Cordelia couldn’t pronounce.

She wondered if Misty smoked cigarettes.

Before she could ponder the strange girl and her dog any longer, she was startled by a loud clanking in front of her. A fork had slipped off a precarious stack of dishes into the sink, and the sound echoed through the room and beyond. Cordelia tensed and counted to ten.

“Cordelia.”

She’d made it to eight.

Turning slowly, she saw her father in the doorway, rubbing one eye in sloppy circles.

“Hi, Daddy.” She bit her lip. “M’sorry,” she mumbled.

“What?” His eyes screwed shut and he took a lurching step towards her.

“Sorry about the noise.”

Her father nodded slowly. “How was the orchard?”

“Nice. I came in a minute after sunset and Mama has me doing all her chores now.”

His whole demeanor changed suddenly. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, talking that way.” He stepped close enough for Cordelia to smell the whiskey on his breath, and she shrank against the sink. “Getting out of family dinner, coming in late, letting some  _ mutt _ ruin your flowers. It’s like you don’t even  _ care, _ Cordelia.”

Cordelia flinched. “I’m so sorry, Daddy, it’s not that I don’t care, it’s just -- I don’t know.”

Her father sighed and stepped past her, picking up a glass Cordelia had just dried. She moved out of the way to allow him to fill it as he said, “I get it, sweetheart. You’re a teenager. You want independence.” He screwed open a bottle of aspirin and popped one in his mouth, chasing it with the water. “But there’s just some things we won’t allow in this house, and missing your curfew is one of them. You understand?” 

Cordelia nodded. “Yes, Daddy.”

“C’mere.”

She didn’t much like hugging her father when he was in this state, sweaty and uncoordinated and more  _ threatening _ than he was normally. But she did it anyway, wrapping one arm around him and keeping the other pressed to her side. Her father, for his part, was too drunk to notice, let alone be hurt by it. He wrapped himself around her like a shell.

“Night, Daddy.”

“Mm. Night, Cordelia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for this chapter: "simmon" by kristin andreassen


	2. dream of you in red and gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woo, chapter two! future chapters will not come this soon. i just promised myself i could post an update whenever i finish writing a chapter so that i always stay ten chapters ahead and also stay motivated to Write More.

Following her excursion Cordelia had been forbidden from after-dinner outings for two weeks. It was torturous for her. Not only were countless sunsets being wasted on an empty orchard, but she worried Misty was trying to see her again while she was trapped inside. She had no way of knowing if Misty really was coming, of course, and at the least her father hadn’t mentioned anyone -- girl or spaniel -- showing up in the field.

True to her word, she’d purchased a packet of marigold seeds from the local nursery and salvaged the ones that remained, but she had little hope for them. It was much too late in the season for marigolds to be planted, and she was resigned to the fact that they likely wouldn’t have enough this year. Each harvesting season made at least one variety its sacrifice -- the year before a family of deer had eaten nearly all the tulips, biting the blooms and leaving just the stems, teeth cutting cleaner than a pair of garden shears. 

Late April always brought a second round of rain to Charlevoix, and sometimes snow too. This year Easter was fairly late in the month, the 25th, but Cordelia’s family didn’t go to church services. They rarely did for Easter; it was simply too close to Mother’s Day and Cordelia and Fiona were always busy arranging flowers and anyway the nearest church was too far to drive to in the snow. Cordelia didn’t mind. She was just as happy to stay behind, finding church rather boring most of the time. Sometimes her father would go to services, but this year he decided to stay home as well and take care of the plants that had been wounded by the snow and rain. 

As they worked, this time bundling leaves and stems and greenery into packages to fill out bouquets, Fiona looked out the window at the rain as it fell. “Is it usually this rainy this time of year?”

Cordelia studied the rain. “Sometimes,” she said. “April showers bring May flowers and all that.”

Fiona hummed in agreement. “I certainly hope so.”

They lapsed into silence again. Once again, Cordelia wanted desperately to be out of the house. She nearly opened her mouth to ask permission to leave but thought better of it. Duke Ellington brushed up against her leg, and she dropped one arm under the table to scratch the top of his head.

“You can’t work like that, Cordelia. Two hands, please.”

“Sorry,” she said, her hand retreating. “Duke Ellington wants cuddles.” She leaned back slightly, and Duke Ellington took the opportunity to leap up into her lap. Cordelia gave a surprised laugh, wrapping both arms around him and fussing with the bundle from around his back.

Fiona, naturally, was not so pleased. “He’s not meant to jump onto the table like that.”

“He’s not really  _ on the table -- _ ” Cordelia started, but of course at that moment Duke Ellington did launch himself forward, over Cordelia’s arms, landing in a pile of ferns and scattering them around the table and onto the floor.

“Cordelia!” Fiona shouted, at the same time Cordelia shouted “Duke Ellington!”, at the same time Duke Ellington yowled and leapt to the floor.

“Sorry, sorry, oh my, I’m sorry,” Cordelia babbled, already bending to the floor to pick up the ferns that dropped.

“Leave them.” Fiona scowled, dropping her face into her hands. “Honestly, Cordelia, I don’t understand how you can be so careless.”

Cordelia slowly straightened up, coming back to her seat and picking up her bundle with a shaky hand. She felt tears beginning to burn the back of her throat.

“I‘m sorry, Mama. I didn’t realize he was going to --”

“It’s never your fault, is it?” her mother half-shouted, poking the table hard with the end of her bundle. “Always some excuse with you.”

“No, mama, not an excuse,” Cordelia pleaded, shaking her head. She wanted to get on her knees and wring her hands and sob onto her mother’s lap. “It was my fault. I’m sorry.” 

“Go help your father,” she said, nose wrinkled in disgust. “I’m sick of your whining.”

Swallowing back the wail that threatened to shake Cordelia’s spine from her body, she turned and went out into the yard.

Her father was hunched over in the flower field, repairing a section of netting that had been torn loose by yesterday’s storm. As Cordelia approached he didn’t stand up, just asked, “What’d you do this time?”

“Mama kicked me out. I let Duke Ellington jump on the table again.”

He sighed. “You’re too sweet on him, Cordelia. He’s just a cat, he’s not your friend.”

Cordelia couldn’t find a response, eventually settling on “What can I do to help?”

He sighed again, and Cordelia wondered if he was just having trouble breathing. Finally he straightened his knees and unfolded himself, wiping his hands on his jeans. “You can finish this netting.”

She nodded. “Okay. Anything else?”

“Whatever else got damaged. There’s more wire in the shed.”

“Okay.”

Without another word he started up the path to the house. He’d nearly reached the bottom step when Cordelia said, “I love you, Daddy.”

He sighed one more time. Without turning around he said, quietly so Cordelia could barely hear it, “I love you too, Cordelia.”

She watched his back get smaller and smaller until he disappeared behind the shadow of the back porch. As she fussed with the netting she realized this was the first time she’d worked outside, alone, since she’d met Misty. Maybe this would be the day they saw each other again.

She could hardly concentrate on her work, now, distracted by imaginings of the strange girl showing up on the other side of the fence. It had been so long, she thought, since she’d had a  _ friend, _ most of her childhood playmates having abandoned her when they became teenagers and she no longer served a purpose to them. But Misty wouldn’t abandon her, Cordelia knew. Somehow. She would never abandon Cordelia. 

That is, if she hadn’t already.  _ You’ve spoken to her once. That’s hardly a friendship, _ she thought, refocusing her gaze on a fragile bloom that had gotten caught in the black plastic. As she methodically disentangled it she let her thoughts wander further, rolling past Misty and onto summertime. She would be in eighth grade next year, nearly done with her formal education. It was a last chance to reinvent herself. The ten or fifteen kids in her class had watched her grow up from a kind-hearted and timid child into what Madame Snow called “a bashful flower bud,” not yet bloomed, but waiting for winter to be over.

She had to wait, at the least, for  _ this _ last chase of real-life winter to be over. And it was coming soon, Cordelia could feel it. By Mother’s Day the sky was usually clear, and aside from a few showers to guide them into the dry season May and June were sunny and warm without being terribly humid, perfect weather for orchard sunsets. And the days were lengthening, too, so Cordelia could steal a precious few more minutes every day.

With all the flowers disentangled and the netting repaired, Cordelia stretched out her sore back. She had no idea how her father could hold such a position for hours on end -- perhaps that was why he was so tired all the time. The sky was grey and thick, and the rain had let up momentarily as long as Cordelia had been outside, but she closed her eyes against a fat raindrop that fell right on the bridge of her nose. It split in two, falling into each eye evenly, and Cordelia groaned as she felt more wetness on her cheeks and shoulders. 

She made a careful inspection of each flower bed, straightening up patches that had been dislodged and making sure each spot was protected. Once or twice she had to hurry to the shed across the field to get some extra material, but she was grateful for the brief reprieve from the rain, which was quickly getting stronger. Cordelia felt her woolen scarf getting uncomfortably damp, hanging heavy on her shoulders and occasionally pressing cold wet spots onto her neck and jaw. Once she was sure there could be no fault found in her work, she started back up the path.

And paused.

It was just after lunchtime. Her parents were likely otherwise occupied -- her mother knitting over a bowl of stew, her father sleeping or reading in bed -- and anyway she didn’t much want to face her mother again just yet.

With a furtive glance into the window, Cordelia turned around once more and ducked under the fence, venturing a few feet into the woods.

Immediately her arms felt floaty, tingling and pressing away from her body, as if she were being compelled to fly away. She was out of the rain, which felt nice, but outside of the safety of the farm and also breaking her mother’s rules, which did not feel very nice at all. Cordelia placed one hand on her stomach and grabbed her own wrist with the other, feeling her stomach push itself in and out several times. She took a few more steps forward and ventured aloud, “Misty?”

There was no answer. The only response, after a few seconds, was the rustling of a jay as it landed in a nearby tree and the surprised squawk of another as its rest was disturbed. Cordelia felt foolish. Here she was, shouting into the middle of nowhere for a girl she’d spoken to for all of two minutes. She hadn’t the faintest idea where to find Misty. It wasn’t as if she lived in the  _ woods, _ though she’d looked as if she might, that day, what with her wild hair and her dirty riding pants.

Still, Cordelia found herself taking another step, letting her hand slide around the trunk of a tree as her body swiveled around it. “Misty?” she called again, louder this time. “It’s Cordelia.” Her voice cracked, unused to shouting in such humid conditions (or any conditions, really). “From the farm -- the marigolds.”

She let the words hang in the air for a moment, waiting for the echo she knew wouldn’t come. It didn’t. She swung herself the rest of the way around the tree, making her way towards the spot of white wood she could see up ahead.

The leaves crunched wetly under her feet, in rhythm with her thundering heart. God, her mother was going to kill her --

“Cordelia?”

She froze. The voice behind her was warmly familiar, and she dared to turn around.

Misty’s eyes were soft. “I thought I heard you.”

“You did,” Cordelia breathed. “I was -- I came here to look for you. I don’t know why.”

“Well, you found me.”

She looked much the same as she had two weeks ago and at the same time completely different. Here, shaded by the clouds and the branches of the trees above, she looked completely at home, right down to her hair that had gone frizzy and damp with the humidity. She was wearing pants again, looser-fitting this time, tucked into her heavy black rain boots. Cordelia felt positively childish in her denim overalls and starched white shirt. “I like your boots,” she blurted, without being entirely sure why.

Misty smiled, bringing her eyebrows together and looking at Cordelia as if she were trying to solve a crossword. “Thanks,” she said. “I like the overalls.”

“Oh, they’re just -- I was working,” said Cordelia.

“You never need an excuse to wear overalls, Cordelia.” Misty smile broke into a full-fledged grin that Cordelia found herself mirroring instinctively.

She swallowed. “So what were you doing here?”

“Here?”

“Well, yes, I’m assuming you weren’t just wandering the woods aimlessly on Easter Sunday.”

Misty’s face was unreadable -- annoyed? confused? laughing at her? -- as she said, “We don’t do Easter.”

“Oh. Neither do we. I mean, we’re Christians but we don’t -- Easter isn’t one of the…” Words failed her again. “So are you Jews, then?”

“No, no.” Misty waved a hand away and propped herself up against a tree. “We’re not much of anything, really.”

“Oh.”

“And I’m in the woods because I live here.”

“You… live here? In the woods?”

“That’s what I just said, yes.”

Cordelia blinked. “You mean on a farm or something?”

“Something like that.” Misty looked off through the trees, studying the way the water dripped from the leaves to the underbrush. “My mother’s an herbalist. You might know her, if either of your parents have gotten sick before. Real sick, I mean, more than a cold.” She smiled at Cordelia, teasing her.

Dimly Cordelia remembered her parents trying all sorts of treatments for her mother’s condition, including a visit to what Cordelia remembered was some kind of witch, a last-ditch effort to avoid the worst. It hadn’t worked, and Fiona had come home fuming, cursing the woman who had promised so much and wasted the precious money they had saved for treatment. Cordelia hadn’t gotten a birthday present that year. 

“So…” Misty began, and Cordelia realized she’d drifted off somewhere, leaving an uncomfortable silence.

“Sorry, yes, I think I know her. My mother went to see her a few years ago, I think.”

“For what?”

“Multiple sclerosis,” Cordelia said, mentally practicing her long explanation for when Misty was inevitably confused. This was her least favorite part of her mother’s illness, the constant barrage of questions from everyone she mentioned it to. The invasion. The otherness.

Misty, however, nodded in what seemed to be, impossibly, understanding. “I remember that. Goode? That’s your last name?”

Cordelia’s lips parted. She nodded.

“Unfortunately there’s not much we can do for something like that,” Misty sighed. “It’s all in the brain. In the nervous system. But my mother’s a stubborn woman. And so is yours, apparently.”

“Oh, she is,” Cordelia said, completely seriously. Misty laughed, thinking it had been a joke. Cordelia wished she had the quick wit to call it one, if only in her own head.

“How is she now? In remission?”

Cordelia shook her head. “She’s in a chair full-time now.”

“God, that’s awful.” Misty let her breath out through her nose. “I’m sorry we couldn’t do more.”

“Don’t be,” she said quickly, waving away the apology. “You did everything you could. You don’t have to apologize.”

Misty pushed herself up off the tree and stepped over to Cordelia. “Well, then I’m just sorry it happened. You guys don’t deserve that. Nobody does.”

“Thank you,” Cordelia said on instinct. She’d learned to accept these expressions of sympathy, acknowledging that they were more for the benefit of the giver than anything else. Rather than let the pity consume her, it merely washed over her and faded away. 

They’d been speaking for all of two minutes, once again, and really they hadn’t discussed anything of importance until just now. But Cordelia found the awkwardness of their conversation coupled with her guilt about being here unbearable, and as much as she wanted to stay and talk to Misty long into the night she forced herself to say, “I have to go.”

Misty’s face fell. “I thought you said you came looking for me?”

“I did,” Cordelia said, looking somewhere other than Misty’s face, “and I found you. And now I think I do have to get home. But let’s do this again.”

“Do what?” Misty scoffed. “Find each other in the woods by accident and talk about our depressing lives for one minute before you make up some excuse to leave?”

Cordelia felt her hands begin to shake. “I’m sorry -- I don’t mean to make excuses --”

“Hey, oh, don’t worry.” Misty placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m just joking.”

“I’m not supposed to even  _ be  _ here,” spat Cordelia, tears already forming in her eyes, and she wasn't sure why. “I don’t know why I came.”

Misty rubbed small circles on the back of her shoulder blade. “I don’t know why you came either, Delia. But I hope you come back.”

Cordelia screwed her eyes shut, forcing her mind to still, and then looked back at Misty. “I will.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for this chapter: "marigolds" by emily king


	3. stacking stones round their broken hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas to those who celebrate! i do not. but it is my mom's birthday today. everyone say happy birthday mom!
> 
> you're probably getting 2 chapters today cause this one's short. breaking my own rules to do so (i only finished chapter 12 last night) but IT'S CHRISTMAS!
> 
> man it would have been fun if i'd timed it right so i was releasing chapters in the months that they're set. but no, you get may/june chapters on christmas.

The last few weeks of school, from late May to mid-June, always brought Cordelia a profound sense of relief and an equally profound sense of longing.  _ No more pencils, no more books, _ she used to sing as a child,  _ no more teachers’ dirty looks. _ But Madame Snow was, to Cordelia, the only person in school who she could stand. At the end of each year she would have to hug Madame Snow goodbye, clinging to her like a wave to the shore, crashing against her side and then receding without her own permission.

On one of the last days of school Madame Snow had them discussing Poe’s “Annabel Lee.” Cordelia was one of the few who had actually read it, a fact that annoyed her as much as it made her feel, rather rudely, superior.

“How do we know,” drawled Madame Snow from her place at the chalkboard, “what has become of our darling Annabel?”

Her long red skirt flared up around her as she turned to face the class. So did her hair, which was the same shape and shade as the skirt, and subject to much speculation as to whether a woman of her age would need to wear a wig to have such bright red tilting off her head like the roof of a barn. There was a moment of silence, and Madame Snow sighed.

“I don’t think I need to tell you that I’m extremely disappointed in you all,” she said, glancing at Cordelia. Suppressing a smile, Cordelia raised a finger in the air.

“Yes, Cordelia.”

“She’s -- passed on.”

“Speak up, my darling,” said Madame Snow. “Stand if you need to.”

Cordelia did, rising from her seat and trying not to make a loud noise with her chair. “Annabel Lee’s passed on. They don’t say it, but it’s here in line…” She looked down, tracing her finger down the page. “Fifteen.  _ A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling / My beautiful Annabel Lee.” _

Madame Snow smiled, and the movement pushed her cat-eye glasses up her nose just slightly. “Very good, Goode.” It was her favorite joke to make, one that she’d been making since Cordelia was in kindergarten, but it still made Cordelia glow even as the other students groaned softly. She sat back down. 

Madame Snow turned back to the class. “Now this is one that you all should be able to answer, even without having read the poem. We discussed literary devices last time I saw you. Which one does Poe use here?”

Twelve pairs of eyes, including Cordelia’s, stared blankly back at her. Cordelia wished she remembered Wednesday’s lesson on literary devices, but it had all gone out of her head two days later.

Finally the boy next to her, Levi, raised his hand. Levi was new to the class, having moved to Saint-Urbain from New York several months prior for mysterious reasons. All of Cordelia’s friends thought him maddeningly attractive, though Cordelia thought he smelled like fish from a foot away.

Madame Snow’s eyes brightened. “Yes, Monsieur Fadenrecht.”

“It’s a eu-phem-ism,” Levi said, butchering the pronunciation and putting the accent on the second syllable. He had a slight accent when he spoke French, some kind of European lilt, though he was born in the States. It was just another thing, like his thick dark hair and his family’s rumored fortune in Russia, that made the girls swoon over him.

Madame Snow, grateful for any kind of participation, didn’t mind the misstep. “Yes, a euphemism,” she said, gently correcting him without humiliating him. “You’re absolutely correct.” She turned to write “line 15 -- euphemism” on the chalkboard, Cordelia diligently writing it on her copy of the poem. “Annabel has died, and rather tragically at that, but Poe doesn’t tell us that outright until later, in line twenty-six. Does everyone see that?” She didn’t turn to see if the class did. “He tells us more innocently, more gently. More poetically, I’d argue. Less crudely.”

Madame Snow lingered there for a moment, swaying slightly. She always looked as if she were about to fall over, either from drunkenness or hunger or simply for the theatrics of it all. 

“Madame?” came a voice from behind Cordelia. It was Marie, one of Cordelia’s childhood friends. Cordelia kept her gaze locked forward, staring at the wall in front of her, as the rest of the class turned towards her. Marie was the kind of girl that quietly demanded attention. Not hungrily like the others Cordelia had grown up with -- it was just natural for her, the way the room shifted to put her at the center.

Madame Snow turned as well, her skirt flaring again. “Go on, Marie.”

“The speaker and Annabel Lee are children, are they not?”

“Yes, line seven.”

Cordelia looked down at her copy of the poem, scratching an arrow next to the line.

“So how can they be in love?”

Madame Snow smiled. “What a question, my darling!” She looked almost giddy, childlike, as she clapped her hands together. “Miss Laveau has just posed quite an interesting query, one that I am sure many of you have begun to ponder.” Her voice took on that theatrical, dreamlike quality. “How  _ can _ they be in love so young? What is love? Can a child be in love?” She wrung her hands together, looking up at the sky, almost as if she were praying. “What, pray tell, is the age requirement for love?”

For a moment everyone was silent. Madame Snow stood perfectly still, eyes screwed shut in rapture, outlandish hair bouncing slowly to a stop. 

Cordelia stole a glance at Marie, diagonally behind her. Of all her old friends Marie was the only one she really missed, the one she would beg and plead for a friendship again. Marie had been the first person in their grade to begin developing physically last year. It seemed to Cordelia she had become a woman overnight, leaving behind her childhood with her baby blanket, and leaving behind Cordelia too. Suddenly Marie caught Cordelia’s eyes and scanned her face. Her expression stayed completely neutral, which almost worried Cordelia more than if she’d scowled or smiled. Marie flicked her fingers just once, tapping her pencil against the desk, and the sound tore Cordelia out of her frozen state.

It seemed to free everyone else as well, for finally Madame Snow opened her eyes and let her arms fall to her sides. “Well, don’t all start answering at once, now.”

Finally Madeleine, another of Cordelia’s old friends, raised her hand and began speaking before Madame Snow called on her. “I think a person can feel love at any age.”

“Wait for me to call on you, Miss Montgomery, but thank you for your input.” Madame Snow said it without frustration, but the slight was clear in her pointed look at Madeleine.

“Sorry,” muttered Madeleine, shifting in her seat to smirk at the girl next to her. 

“Care to elaborate?”

Madeleine pulled one of her curls between her fingers. “The heart doesn’t listen to rules when it comes to love. It’s absurd to suggest there’s some kind of age limit. There’s people in this room who have been in love, probably.”

Madame Snow crossed her arms, putting on an air of mock fascination. “My, what an assertion. I hate to ask, class, but is there anyone here who thinks they’ve been in love?”

At this Cordelia swiveled her head around to see. No one raised their hands, but everyone looked around curiously -- and nervously. 

Madeleine scoffed. “Well, it’s not like people are going to  _ tell _ us.”

“Miss Montgomery, raise your hand,  _ please. _ But I suppose you’re right. Close your eyes, everyone.”

Cordelia did immediately; she didn’t think to see if other people would. Not that they could see her eyes from behind her anyway -- another perk of being in the front row.

“If you believe that thus far in your young lives you have really, truly been in love, please raise your hand.”

Cordelia sat very still. After a moment Madame Snow called for them to open their eyes. Madeleine looked at her expectantly, but Madame Snow said simply, “Who else has a strong opinion?” When no one raised their hand, Cordelia felt herself raising hers, thoughts already half-forming before she realized it. 

“Yes, Cordelia.”

“I disagree with Madeleine,” she started, the pieces of her ideas beginning to pull together as if by a needle and thread. “I think love is something that… It’s an adult feeling.”

Madame Snow raised an eyebrow, cocking her head towards Cordelia, teasing her. “An  _ adult _ feeling, you say?” 

Cordelia blushed as the implication dawned on her. “Not in a -- a lustful way.” She could feel her thoughts unraveling at the seams as her face flushed with heat. “I just don’t think we’re developed enough yet,” she said.

From behind her she heard Madeleine say pointedly, “Well,  _ some _ of us aren’t.” 

Cordelia’s hands gripped against her thighs as her classmates snickered. Her head drooped as she pressed against the back of her seat, trying to melt into it. 

“Madeleine Montgomery!” Thirteen heads snapped to Madame Snow. “I will see you  _ after class, _ ” she seethed, and twenty-six eyes flicked to the wooden cane hanging off of Madame Snow’s desk. Cordelia bit the inside of her cheek, trying to hold back tears, following Madame Snow’s deep breath in and out as her teacher pinched the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut.

After a moment she opened them again, noticing Marie’s raised hand. “Yes, Miss Laveau.”

“I have a rather personal question.”

She nodded, her eyes kind again. It was amazing to Cordelia how quickly she changed, from teasing to stern to loving over the course of fifty seconds. She seemed to feel  _ everything, _ so much and so quickly, and Cordelia wondered how much of it was acting, a leftover from the days she’d supposedly spent on Broadway in her youth.

“When did  _ you _ first fall in love?”

Madame Snow looked caught off guard, something rare for her, and immediately the class leaned in. That Madame Snow was unmarried was one of the few things they knew to be true. She wore no ring, she lived alone, and she’d often complain about how difficult it was to be “untethered in a tethered world,” as she put it. Cordelia thought the question rather rude, but couldn’t deny she was curious. Her teacher was always very careful about her private life, allowing outlandish rumors to gather around her without denying them, but without confirming them either. Cordelia half expected her to punish Marie as well, for being so disrespectful. But her face softened, and she brought a hand up to her chest.

“Oh my. I was a few years older than you. Eighteen or nineteen.”

“What happened? Did you tell him?” someone asked, but Madame Snow didn’t scowl at the interruption. She only shook her head.

“It wouldn’t have gone over well,” she said softly. “It was never meant to be.” She shook her head again, letting out a small exhale. She looked wistful, almost forlorn, and an uncomfortable silence filled the room as Cordelia’s classmates felt the weight of her confession.

Behind Cordelia Marie asked tentatively, “Did you ever get married, Madame Snow?”

“Briefly.” The truth flowed freely now, openly, without any sarcastic or colorful remarks disguising them. “It wasn’t good for either of us.” 

She cleared her throat. “Most men are fools, ladies, remember that.” And as quickly as it had dissipated her sharp wit was back. “And gentlemen, please try and be one of the good ones.” She smiled, hand floating back down to her side from where it had been absently rubbing her chest.

Glancing at the clock, Madame Snow smoothed her skirt against her legs. “Well, now,” she said, her voice still carrying a small waver, “It’s getting time to pack up. For the weekend I want you to annotate Poe’s poem for the four literary devices we’ve discussed, and I’ll see you on Tuesday. The first day of the last week of seventh grade.” These last two sentences were mostly swallowed by the sound of chairs scraping against the rough wooden floor and papers being filed haphazardly into bags, but Cordelia held onto every word. In just a few days she would be done with seventh grade and then in just a  _ year _ she would be done with school, and the realization made her hands feel like lead. She had to hang onto every little moment, every word out of Madame Snow’s mouth, because she couldn’t bear to think about what might come after for her.

Each student stood next to their desk, bodies pulled taut towards the door. Madame Snow’s mouth turned up in a sly smile, and she let the discomfort hang in the air for nearly a full minute before she released it. “Class dismissed.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for this chapter: "autumn town leaves" by iron and wine


	4. at my gate i'll always meet you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. things to know about this one.
> 
> in this chapter we're introduced to my 1940s stevie nicks stand-in, mother maybelle carter and the carter family, a real-life country music act that was around in the 20s-40s. i'm obsessed with the carter family, you guys. if you don't know them, mother maybelle essentially was one of the first people to start treating the guitar as a lead instrument rather than a backup/chordal instrument, so you can thank her (and her mentor lesley riddle) for basically all of rock music. ugh, i'm obsessed.
> 
> anyway. go check em out! also there's a movie about the carter family where mother maybelle is played by FRANCES F*CKING CONROY!!! what are the odds??

Cordelia’s fourteenth summer passed quickly, in a blur of picking flowers in the fields and cutting them with her mother, and as much as she tried to hold onto it the time seemed to slip between her fingers. Every time she tried to slow down, to press herself back into the hour before, she found herself forgetting to cling to the present and losing her memory of the day anyway. Every day that she had a spare few hours she looked longingly at the woods, wondering how Misty was doing, whether she was looking for Cordelia or if she’d forgotten her entirely. 

It was rather curious how she’d never seen Misty at school -- or anywhere else, for that matter. Had she recently moved to Saint-Urbain? It was unlikely. Newcomers to the farming village were rare, and when they did appear, like Levi Fadenrecht, they were something of a spectacle. And Misty’s mother had been living there at least since Cordelia was nine or ten, when her mother’s illness had worsened and they’d sought treatment from her.

Each day brought new questions about the strange girl. But try as she might, Cordelia could never find the time or the privacy to venture back into the woods, and Misty became no more than a face in her memories for almost three months.

It wasn’t until mid-August that Cordelia found the time to go back-to-school shopping. Her mother gave her three dollars for new clothes and supplies, calling it a birthday present even though Cordelia’s birthday had been in May. The lateness wasn’t a cruelty, just a necessity -- they had to wait for the bulk of their Mother’s Day sales to come in, and then it was wedding season and they were busy with custom orders for the young couples that flitted through town, some who had grown up here, others who simply found it charming. Now, finally, she had two dollars and four quarters in the pocket of her overalls, and as she made her way to the post office she dreamed of the woman she might become this year. As much as she wanted to savor her last year of safety and routine, she felt herself _growing up_ in ways she hadn’t before. The unease in her stomach grew with each passing day.

But she shoved it aside for the time being. The man at the post office always saved several copies of the latest Simpson’s catalog, allowing anyone who might come in to look at it and place an order on the telephone. Cordelia pushed the door open, and he looked up and smiled at her as the bells chimed and announced her entrance.

“Morning, Cordelia,” he said. He knew her name, of course. He was an old man, older than Cordelia’s father -- older than Madame Snow even. As far as anyone knew he’d been working at the post office.

“Morning, Quentin.”

“Here for the Simpson’s catalogue?”

Cordelia nodded. “Just some back-to-school shopping.”

Hank’s smile grew as he reached behind him for the magazine. “Back to school, huh? How old are you now?” he asked, placing it on the counter in front of her.

“Fourteen.” She picked up the magazine and flipped it open, scanning the index for “blouses.” She had just enough money for one nice new shirt. As much as she loved her overalls, they _were_ beginning to look more childlike every day, but they just fit her so well that she couldn’t bear to throw them away. 

“Fourteen!” Quentin exclaimed. “You’re growing up fast, honey. I remember when you used to come in with your mother and you hardly came up to her knee.” He paused. “How is she, by the way?”

“She’s all right,” Cordelia said politely. There wasn’t much more she could say -- she was working as hard as she had been before, only now she was sitting down to do it. Nearly five years since her mother had transitioned to using a wheelchair full-time it just felt _normal_ to Cordelia. In any case she tried to avoid her mother unless she had to, so her various pains and complaints seemed distant to her, as if they were coming through a wall. Which they were most of the time, just muffled shouts from her parents’ room to hers.

Cordelia saw Quentin nod out of the corner of her eye as she flipped to the page that promised women’s blouses. The girls on the page smiled blankly back at her, hair perfectly coiffed, eyebrows small and thin and arched. Cordelia hated her own eyebrows. They were thick and low, darker than the hair on her head, sitting like smears of mud above her eyes. She wished she could pluck her brows like she saw Madeleine doing in the school bathroom sometimes, but she didn’t think she could stand the pain and there was simply too much to fix on her forehead. Her eyes tracked lower. Small breasts filled out the girls’ blouses, breasts Cordelia had desperately wished for since Marie’s had appeared in sixth grade. Once her chest was no longer a mirror image of her back, perhaps she would finally stop feeling like a child.

She liked shirts with buttons and mid-length sleeves, and there was one with two little bows at the collar that Cordelia thought was charming, but it was two ninety-nine and Cordelia wanted to have a little money to save. She didn’t know what she was saving for, really, but she felt very responsible and mature doing so.

There was another button-down blouse near the bottom of the page, two dollars and fifteen cents, and Cordelia thought it was perfect. Marking down the number on a form Quentin had laid next to her, she fished the money out of her pocket and laid it on the counter. “How much to send it?”

Quentin turned the catalogue around to find the blouse she’d picked out. “Oh, that’s a pretty one,” he said. “Three cents for the stamp.”

Cordelia slid the money to him, and he pushed open the cash register to count out her change. She filled out her name and address on the form and folded it into an envelope. Quentin picked up the package and put the required amount of money in it, pressing a stamp onto the front and dropping three quarters and a dime into Cordelia’s hand.

“That’s too much,” she protested. “I only need eighty-two.”

Quentin hummed distractedly and avoided her eye, but Cordelia saw him smile. 

“Well, that’s very kind of you. Thank you.”

“You won’t be around here much longer,” he said. “And neither will I. You deserve it, sweetheart. What with all your family’s been through.”

Suddenly Cordelia didn’t want the three extra cents anymore. She hated the pity others gave her as if they thought she would be comforted by it. Still, she appreciated Quentin’s small kindness, and gave a tight smile as she pocketed the coins.

“Thank you, Quentin. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“Bye, sweetheart.”

She turned to leave just as the bells chimed and the door opened. The bright sunlight backlit the figure entering the post office, and all Cordelia saw was a mess of curly hair cascading down its shoulders.

Misty moved out of the bright light and caught sight of Cordelia. They stared at each other for what felt like half an hour.

“You two know each other?”

Misty looked past Cordelia, finally noticing Quentin behind the counter. She said nothing.

“We’re neighbors,” said Cordelia without turning around. Quentin, though he’d visited the Goode family farm countless times and knew there were no other families living nearby, said nothing.

Misty took a step towards Cordelia, looking between her and Quentin. “Haven’t seen you since April.”

“I’ve been busy,” Cordelia responded. It was a weak excuse, really not much of an excuse at all, but it was the truth. She leaned to her left just as Misty reached over her left shoulder, and Misty smacked her in the face with the envelope.

“Oh my -- sorry,” Misty muttered, forgetting what anger she might have had. “You all right?” She dropped the envelope on the counter. “Prepaid,” she said to Quentin, who nodded and picked it up again.

“I’m fine,” Cordelia breathed. “Thank you, Quentin,” she said, reaching behind her to pat the counter absently.

“Of course, darling.”

Without saying a word to Misty Cordelia pushed open the door and stood outside for a moment. The other girl joined her, silent as well, and they watched what little breeze there was stir the trees across the street.

Misty said, “Walk with me?”

Cordelia said, “Yes.”

They walked in step with each other, as if they’d known each other forever. As if they hadn’t spoken twice and then disappeared from each others’ lives.

“You said you’d be back,” said Misty.

“I am.”

“Took you long enough.”

“I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “We run a -- a flower business, my parents and I, and it was Mother’s Day and then wedding season and…”

“I understand.” Misty finally spoke, allowing Cordelia’s thoughts to rest for a moment. “We’ve been busy too.”

Cordelia could find nothing more to say. She let their footsteps set a rhythm, heels of their shoes clacking against the sidewalk in time with each other.

Cordelia studied her out of the corner of her eye. Misty had gotten taller over the summer, standing over Cordelia by a few inches, and Cordelia blushed as she noticed her body had grown as well. 

She was so jealous of Misty all of a sudden. It felt like the whole world was changing around Cordelia, growing up faster every day. The ships on the St. Lawrence were growing closer to Saint-Urbain, threatening their idyllic farming town. The war that was being waged just outside the ring of trees around them seemed so far away to Cordelia, like a bedtime story, but lately it had begun to outrage her. What little she saw in the morning paper was enough to make her feel sick to her stomach. And yet she felt so foolish, so young, so _powerless_ to do anything.

They were nearly to the road that led down to the Goode farm now, and Cordelia wondered if Misty would follow her if she asked. Or perhaps she should ask to follow Misty, to find out more about this strange girl. 

“What are you doing for the rest of the day?”

Cordelia had no plans, actually. “I was planning on being in the orchard. Spending a day there before school begins again and the sun sets earlier.”

Misty nodded. She opened her mouth, took a breath, and closed it again, exhaling through her nose.

“Do you want to come with me?”

She smiled. “If you’ll have me.”

It didn’t take long for them to reach Cordelia’s spot, being close to the main road as they were, and Cordelia let Misty sit with her back to the sun. It was mid-morning now, already humid, and Misty’s hair was frizzy and tangled, longer than it had been last time Cordelia had seen her.

“Do you want a nectarine?” Cordelia asked, twisting one off a branch for herself.

“Oh -- if that’s all right. Yes, I’d love one.”

“Of course.” She pulled another one for Misty and extended her arm, letting it roll off her fingers and into Misty’s outstretched hand. “I’m not supposed to, but -- it’s just one.”

“Two.” Misty grinned, a little sheepish.

“Right. Two.” Cordelia felt a strange surge of panic at the thought. Of course two nectarines were no different than one nectarine, but what if two became three? Or she brought Misty back here and it became four, six, eight? What if her parents noticed?

Feeling herself spiral, she dug a finger into the fruit’s tender flesh, just gently enough to break the skin. The cold juice ran onto her thumb, bringing her back to this place, to this moment.

“Cordelia, this is wonderful.”

Cordelia blinked away the blurriness and saw Misty brandishing the bitten nectarine like a hunting trophy. “Oh, I’m glad you like it.”

“It’s really great. This one was warm,” she said, waving it in the air. “Is yours?”

Cordelia took a bite of her own nectarine where her finger had wounded it. It was indeed slightly warm, slightly damp from the humidity and the last bits of morning dew. “Yes.”

Misty smiled again. It seemed so _easy_ for her, smiling. It was as if her face, her lips, had been molded for smiling, as if pure, unbridled happiness were her natural state.

“Can I ask you something?” Cordelia blurted. When Misty nodded she realized she wasn’t even sure what she was planning on saying, just that she wanted to know what Misty thought about religion, politics, the war, everything.

But most of the questions she wanted to ask felt too serious for what was essentially their first real conversation. “Why don’t I see you at school?”

Misty’s head fell back against the tree, and she looked down across her nose at Cordelia. “I don’t go to school,” she said simply.

“Are you… homeschooled?”

“In a sense.” She shrugged, pausing to take another bite of the nectarine. “My mother teaches me the things I need to know.”

“Can you read?”

“Can I _read?_ ” Misty laughed. “Yes, Cordelia, I know how to read. I’m not an animal.”

“I’m -- sorry,” Cordelia stammered. “I just haven’t met anyone quite like you before.”

Misty took another bite of the nectarine, turning to wipe her chin on the shoulder of her shirt. It would likely leave a stain on the soft cotton, but Cordelia had the feeling Misty wouldn’t mind all that much. “I don’t know if that’s meant to be a compliment.”

“It is,” Cordelia put in quickly. “You’re awfully interesting. There aren’t many interesting people here.”

“I think you’re interesting.”

Cordelia’s eyes widened. “Me? Oh, goodness, no. There’s -- there’s nothing interesting about me.”

“Sure there is,” said Misty. “There’s something interesting about everyone.”

“What’s interesting about me, then?” Cordelia fidgeted and bit into her nectarine again.

“You like sitting in nectarine orchards and watching sunsets. You know the postman by his first name. You love flowers. But your favorites are marigolds.”

Cordelia felt warmth blooming in her heart at the intimacy of Misty’s words. “You know me better than my parents at this point.”

“Do you want to come see my house?”

The question seemed to come out of nowhere, though, Cordelia supposed, it hadn’t really, because they were something like friends now and this was something that friends did. And she was curious about what Misty’s inner life was like, what she kept in her bedroom, what flowers were in the front yard. Though, she remembered, it wasn’t as if Misty’s house were like hers, with its manicured greenery outside. Cordelia imagined Misty’s backyard to be the entire forest, the line between home and wilderness blurring with time.

After a nod, a tug up by Misty’s strong hand, and a short walk through the woods (which seemed less menacing now than they had last time), Cordelia found she had been mostly right. Misty’s house was small and run-down, and it was essentially what Cordelia would call a shack, though she was loath to apply that word to the place Misty called home. There were gaps in the wooden walls that Cordelia imagined were hellish in winter, and little weeds and wildflowers grew up all around the house and beyond it.

“Home sweet home,” said Misty, gesturing with the hand that still held the remains of the nectarine. Cordelia’s was gone now; on the way over she’d let Misty do most of the talking while she ate.

“It’s wonderful,” she murmured.

“You don’t have to say that. I know it’s no Palais de Versailles.”

Cordelia let out a surprised laugh. “Well, in any case, it looks cozy.”

“Come back in the winter,” Misty said wryly, confirming Cordelia’s theories. “But now, just come inside.”

She led Cordelia to the door, pushing it open and allowing Cordelia to enter before her. The house was small, just a single room loosely divided into sections. There were two small beds on the opposite wall, next to a window, and a large table next to it, covered in various bottles and boxes and plants. On the right wall was a small sitting area, just a table and two chairs, and a cabinet that reached the ceiling. The other wall housed the furnace, sink, and icebox, with a small bookshelf nestled between them. Each surface was covered: the bookshelf stacked high with records and volumes that wouldn’t fit on the shelves, the table littered with leaf clippings and scraps of paper (themselves covered in a messy scrawl), the icebox doubling as a place for Misty and her mother to store their folded clothes. It was all so lovably domestic to Cordelia, so safe. And also awfully quiet. “Where’s Salem?”

“Out,” Misty said simply as she came in behind her, immediately moving to pick up some plant trimmings that had fallen to the floor. “Sorry about the mess,” she said. “My mom hasn’t been home for a few days.”

“Oh, don’t worry, it looks great.” Cordelia added Misty’s mother and her sweet dog to the list of questions she wanted answers to. 

Misty gestured for Cordelia to sit at the table, so she did. “Do you want anything? Water?”

“No, thank you.” Cordelia watched Misty take a cloudy glass out of the cabinet and fill it in the sink. “How long have you been here?”

“My whole life, just about,” she responded. “My mom used to take me on her trips, when I was a baby, and I’m not really sure if we moved here or if we just weren’t home much back then.” 

She moved to the shelf full of records, fingers skimming over the titles before picking out something and placing it on the record player. “Do you ever listen to the Carter Family?”

She shook her head. Cordelia didn’t listen to much music at all, really, preferring to work in silence, or the classical music her mother enjoyed when they were feeling particularly happy. She had heard of the Carter Family once or twice, perhaps heard one of their songs on the radio -- they were very popular on the radio, Cordelia knew -- but she had never been one for such rollicking, playful music. 

Misty slid the eight-inch from its sleeve and eased it onto the record player. “I just ordered this one from New York,” she said. “I just love Mother Maybelle.”

The song was gentle, tumbling from the speakers like water, and it surprised Cordelia just how much it soothed her. Mother Maybelle’s voice, with its soft Southern accent, twined with another woman’s, weaving in and out of harmonies in ways Cordelia hadn’t heard before.

“It’s nice,” she murmured appreciatively, more to break the silence than anything else. Misty didn’t respond, just nodded, eyes slipping closed to mouth the words. Once again Cordelia marveled at just how at ease Misty looked.

She was uncomfortably aware of the fact that she was wholly in Misty’s territory, surrounded by her belongings, her music, her _life._ It was so unlike where Cordelia had lived her whole life, cradled in the safety of a grove of trees and a ring of open sky above her at all times. She felt unsafe. Not unsafe, no, just -- uneasy.

Misty’s eyes opened again as the song ended, the final guitar strum petering out into the empty air. “I’ll go turn it over,” she said, standing up.

“Wait,” Cordelia said. Misty stopped and turned back to her. “Can we… could we listen to that again?”

Misty smiled. “You liked it that much, huh?”

“I like their voices. The way they’re sometimes singing together and sometimes apart.”

“Right.” Misty moved the needle and the song started again, more familiar to Cordelia, but she still couldn’t parse the words. “Sarah and Maybelle are cousins. Some people say that’s why they sound so nice together. Blood harmony, they call it.”

“Do you have any family?” Cordelia asked. “I mean -- brothers or sisters?”

Misty’s brow furrowed as she sank back into her seat. “I don’t think so,” she said.

“Well, you’d know if your parents had another child,” Cordelia joked. Immediately after it left her mouth she knew it was a stupid thing to say.

“Not necessarily,” said Misty, flattening her hands out against the table. “I don’t really know who my father is, so really I could have any number of biological siblings. No one I know, though. It’s just me and my mom.”

The delicate information just came out of her, nonchalant, and Cordelia was taken aback. So she’d been born out of wedlock, then, or something like it. They had names for that -- _bastard_ , she thought, _love-child_ \-- but they all seemed so useless as ways to identify Misty. Misty was ephemeral, unable to be pinned down by such vulgarities, and could only be described with her own name.

“What about you?” Misty asked, and it took Cordelia a moment to shake herself out of her own thoughts. 

“Siblings? No, no. Just me.” She intended to stop there, but it felt unfair after Misty’s casual confession. “I think my parents wanted another, but with my mother’s illness it just wouldn’t have worked.”

Misty made a sympathetic noise.

“What’s this song called?”  
“‘East Virginia Blues.’ Though I wasn’t aware an East Virginia existed.”

Cordelia laughed.

“Have you ever been to the States?”

“No.” Cordelia had hardly been outside of Charlevoix -- just the occasional trip to Quebec City in the summer, and once to Montreal when she was younger, and once, she’d been told, to the Canadian side of Niagara Falls, though she had been too young to remember. “Have you?”

“I was born in Louisiana,” she said. “Though we moved here when I was young. I don’t remember it much.”

“Louisiana?”

“It’s in the South. New Orleans,” she explained, and _yes,_ that city was familiar to her. “But we were out in the sticks.” _The sticks._ The phrase seemed so uncouth to Cordelia, though she supposed they were in the sticks themselves.

The song had ended once again, but neither of them made any move to start it a third time. Cordelia turned her gaze towards the window. How long had it been? The sun was high in the sky now, and Cordelia felt the humidity weighing down the air around them.

“It’s kind of like the song,” Misty said.

“Hm?”

“My life. I don’t know if you caught the words. ‘I was born in East Virginia, North Carolina I did go.’” Cordelia smiled. “‘There I met a fair young maiden --’ That’s you.”

“That’s me?”

“Yes. You have really pretty hair, do you know?”

She hung her head, embarrassed. “No, I don’t. It’s boring.”

“It’s not boring,” said Misty. “It’s nice. It suits you.” She pulled at her own tangled curls. “Mine is just a mess.”

“I wish I had your volume,” Cordelia responded, but it sounded false, and it was, to some extent. Misty was beautiful, but her hair was matted and frizzy with humidity, and it certainly wasn’t one of her most attractive traits. But it did at least have volume, could probably be twisted into pretty ringlets or victory rolls. 

Misty stood and picked up her glass to fill it again at the sink. She looked at herself and then at Cordelia in the mirror. “Some days I want to just cut it all off.”

“Like a bob?” It was a rather old-fashioned style, but one she saw people still wore today. It would look good on Misty, she thought. It would frame her face well.

Misty shook her head. “Shorter.” She carded her hands gently through it, pulling it back as if in a bun, and turned to look at Cordelia directly. “Like a man.”

“You want a man’s haircut?”

Misty’s face flushed. She let her hand drop to her side and her hair fell with it. “No, no. That’s silly. I just wonder what it would look like. What I would look like, if I was a man.”

Cordelia studied Misty’s face, the curve of her jaw, her high cheekbones. “I think you’d make an awful handsome man.”

Misty’s face took on a look of such earnest joy that Cordelia had to laugh. “You think so?”

“Oh, yes,” Cordelia said. “The girls would be all over you.”

They both laughed at that, easy, and Cordelia felt herself _relax_ for what felt like the first time that day. Perhaps the first time since she’d last been to the orchard the previous week. Misty turned the record over and set the needle in the center. This song was a waltz, sweet and not too slow. She sat down across from Cordelia once more. “We should do this again.”  
“Yes,” said Cordelia.

“When are you available?”

“Um.” School, the farm, the flower shop. “Would it work if I just dropped by here?”

Misty’s brows creased. “I suppose. But what do you mean? Will it be another three months?”

“No,” she said automatically. “No, it’ll be soon, I promise.”

Misty swallowed and nodded.

“Where is your mother?”

“Montreal. It’s the full moon,” she said, as if that explained everything. Cordelia just nodded, not wanting Misty to feel like she was being interrogated. “She’ll be back tonight.”

“Can I meet her?”

“If you want.” Misty shrugged. “She’s a strange woman. Like me but multiplied threefold.”

“I thought you didn’t go to school,” Cordelia teased.

“You need arithmetic to run a business.”

“So it’s a business?”

“Of sorts. Mama calls it a clinic, but I think that’s giving us more credit than we’re worth. We’re not doctors.”

The word “we” caught Cordelia’s attention. “So you help her out, then?”

“Same as you help your mother. She’s teaching me the ways.”

Cordelia nodded.

“Would you like to meet her? Tonight?”

“Uh --” Cordelia felt that panic rise in her again. “I have to be home before dark. So if she won’t be back by then…”

“She won’t.” Misty sounded almost regretful.

“I’m sorry. But I can stay until then?”

Misty smiled. “That sounds wonderful to me.” 

“What do you want to do?”

“Well." Misty stood up, moving to the record player again, and slid out two records. "I’ve got plenty of music.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for this chapter, as you may have guessed: east virginia blues by the carter family


	5. autumn’s ashes, summer’s embers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorrryyyyy for not updating in a while ugh it's been A Lot
> 
> i'm breaking my own "write a chapter-post a chapter" rules here but if you're reading this it means I HIT 40K WORDS IN MY DRAFT! yay! as a reward... enjoy some Familial Angst and Sadness... but do not fear! the next chapter is one of my favorites.
> 
> tw: this chapter has mentions of suicidal ideation & methods of committing suicide (nothing graphic), so be aware of that.

Cordelia did stay for the rest of the day, slipping back into the house and up into her room before her mother could ask any questions. She went back the next day, and two days after as well, and again two or three times a week up until when school started. 

They spent a great deal of time in the woods around Misty’s house. Misty knew all the best spots to sit and look out on the valley, and sometimes they brought Salem with them too. The stream on the northeast side of town was his favorite place, but Misty warned that it was too cold for them to go swimming. They dared each other, threatened to push each other in, but they never did.

In the afternoons they’d go back to Misty’s house, and they listened to Misty’s extensive Carter Family collection (she really did own nearly all of it) and talked for hours. Cordelia found out, by degrees, much of Misty’s history and her home life. She and her mother had moved to Charlevoix nine years ago, when Misty was five, but her mother had never enrolled her in school. Misty didn’t know why her mother had moved them, or why she hadn’t put Misty in school, or why she disappeared for days at a time once a month or so. 

If the sun was setting and neither of them had anywhere to be, they would make the trek to Cordelia’s orchard. The sky was darkening earlier and earlier. Cordelia didn’t offer Misty any more nectarines, and Misty didn’t ask for them either, which was good because Cordelia wasn’t sure she’d know how to refuse.

In early September school started again, and Cordelia knew she wouldn’t be able to see Misty as much anymore. And with the harvest coming up she wouldn’t have much time for anything. Before long she was rising early to bike to school and coming straight home to help her father with the flowers. The persimmons weren’t quite ready yet, still a little hard and yellowish, but some of the flowers that bloomed over the summer were, as were the vegetables they’d decided to plant several years ago. The squash and pumpkins they grew were mostly for themselves, but they managed to sell a few every year to make a little extra money. 

Cordelia wasn’t sure why she hadn’t told her parents about Misty. She told them most things -- not that there was much to tell -- and she wasn’t doing anything  _ wrong _ by spending time with her. Well, except for her mother’s rule about going into the forest alone. 

So maybe it was better that her parents didn’t know.

It wasn’t as if they suspected anything. Her mother was busy taking calls and filling orders and paperwork and making bouquets with her free hand, and her father spent all day in the field, whether Cordelia was there or not. Often when Cordelia returned he was already asleep, or in bed at the very least. He seemed to be sleeping a great deal these days. 

This school year was more bearable, at least. Madame Snow seemed to sense their excitement at being nearly free from the horrors of the public education system, and was unusually lenient about late work and tardiness. Cordelia, who had always felt belittled for being studious and quiet, was suddenly sought-after for homework help (and, more often, just the answers). Still, she wouldn’t call herself popular by any means, nor would she call anyone in her class a friend. It felt so depressing, to be at school and thinking the words  _ I have no friends. _ But she really didn’t.

Until now. Because now, she had Misty.

Misty was a strange sort of friend -- totally unknown to the world around Cordelia, but an absolutely vital part of her own. She seemed to Cordelia sometimes like a mirage, or an imaginary friend. How had someone like her lived totally invisibly, just a fifteen-minute walk from Cordelia, for nearly ten years?

“My aunt and uncle were having a great deal of trouble getting pregnant,” she heard Madeleine whisper one morning in September, “and they went to this woman in the woods. A witch.”

The other girl gasped, and Cordelia recognized her as Marie. “No. There are no witches here, are they?”

“Sure. There are witches everywhere.” She pictured Madeleine shrugging, the picture of worldliness and maturity. “They have a bad reputation, you know, but they’re mostly victims of male oppression. Ever heard of Salem, Massachusetts?”

Cordelia smiled at the image of the sweet brown-and-white dog that Misty loved so dearly. She didn’t hear a response from Marie.

“Well, this  _ woman _ lives alone in the woods, and she’s an honest-to-God witch.”

Cordelia tensed automatically at the curse. Then the pieces started to come together in her mind and she felt her veins turn to steel.

“Alone? How does she survive?”

“Well, she’s not alone. She’s got a daughter, about our age. But she doesn’t go to school.”

“Why not?”

“Beats me. Maybe she’s horrendously stupid. Can’t do anything but sit there and help her crazy mother make potions all day. Stirring the cauldron.”

Behind her Marie and Madeleine tittered loudly, drawing the attention of a few students around them, and Cordelia had half a mind to rise from her seat and turn and shout at them.  _ You don’t even know her, _ she’d say. _ I know her. She’s brilliant. More so than any of you morons. _

To her surprise, it was Madame Snow who spoke to them first. “Ladies,” she said sharply. “If you’ve completed your exercise you may contemplate your breakfast in silence, as Cordelia is so excellently modeling for us.”

Cordelia’s face felt warm. She had, indeed, finished her exercise early, and normally she’d glow at the praise, but she had already been smoldering at hearing Madeleine and Marie gossip about her friend -- her  _ only _ friend -- like this, and the smolder ignited into a flame as she felt Madeleine’s and Marie’s eyes burning into her back. But they said nothing, and Cordelia was left to contemplate her breakfast, as Madame Snow had suggested.

The subject was just another of Madame Snow’s dramatically witty remarks, not an actual suggestion, and Cordelia found herself turning Madeleine’s words over and over in her mind. Was Misty  _ dumb? _ She certainly seemed intelligent to Cordelia. When Misty got excited about something her blue eyes seemed to get bluer, shimmering, and more than once Cordelia had asked her if she was about to cry.

“What? No,” she’d said. “What makes you think that?”

“You just look,” and here Cordelia had paused, studying her, “so  _ sincere. _ ”

And then Misty would laugh, and she’d wave a hand at Cordelia dismissively, and she’d move on with whatever long-winded explanation she was giving.

As Madame Snow called for the class to come and hand her their papers, she wondered what Madeleine and Marie would think if she knew the witch’s daughter was Cordelia’s only remaining friend. She would be ridiculed, pitied even. No, they could never know. If they spoke of Misty again she would be silent and still.

It seemed so cruel, to have to hide Misty like this from the whole world. Sometimes her mother would make polite conversation with Cordelia as they cut flowers in the dining room, and one night the line of questioning turned to Cordelia’s social life.

“You know, I don’t see Marie and Madeleine over here as much. How are they?”

Cordelia pinched the end of a stem off, perhaps harder than necessary. “Fine. I don’t speak to them much.”

“You don’t? Whatever happened to them?”

“We just grew apart. They still speak to each other.”

“I see.” Fiona fussed with the bouquet in her hand. “Well, who  _ do _ you speak to?”

She shrugged. “No one, really. I’m mostly by myself.”

“And after school?”

“I just come home and help Daddy.”

Fiona sighed. “When I was your age, in Montreal, I used to spend my afternoons skipping rope. For hours and hours.”

“Really?” Cordelia tried to imagine her mother as a young woman, carefree and beautiful, and failed. In Cordelia’s mind she had always been like this, all tight-lipped smiles and words bitten back so violently that Cordelia could practically taste them herself.

She pursed her lips. “Of course, I didn’t have a farm to take care of back then.” 

“I’m alright not going out every night,” Cordelia said, assuring herself as much as her mother. “I’m more of a homebody anyway.”

Fiona, distant, made a noise of agreement and held out a hand. “Pass me the shears, please?”

Cordelia pressed the shears into her mother’s calloused hand. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.”

Cordelia’s tongue pressed against her front teeth, ready to say  _ There is someone, actually, _ but she thought better of it.

“Cordelia?” Her father’s voice floated in from the entryway. “Can you come out and help me with something?”

Cordelia looked at her mother expectantly. Fiona held her gaze for a moment, then, without looking away, called, “She’s helping me in here, Ambroise.”

“I know that. I just need her for a minute.”

“What is it?”

“Jesus, Fiona, will you just send her out here?”

Fiona slammed her palms down on the table, dropping the bundle of begonias she’d been trimming. Cordelia jumped. Almost reflexively she said, loud enough for her father to hear as well, “It’s alright, Mama. I’ll go with him, I’ll be right back.”

Fiona’s nostrils flared, but she said nothing. Cordelia stood up as quietly as possible and met her father on the porch.

“That dog you saw got into the pansies,” he said. “Need you to help me salvage the ones worth saving, and clean up the rest.”

_ That dog. _ Salem? Cordelia’s mind began to race as she carried the idea to its logical conclusion. Assuming Misty had let him run off, that meant she might come by to get him again, just as she had when they’d met. She’d recognize Cordelia (of course), call out to her, call her by name. Her father would ask how they knew each other. She would have to explain the orchard, the shack, the hours spent together. Or she could lie. But a lie, Cordelia knew, would eventually catch up to her, and it just wasn’t worth the trouble.

She worked quickly, accidentally pulling up several perfectly good flowers in her haste. Her father didn’t notice, or was perhaps too tightly wound to say anything. What would have taken thirty minutes took fifteen or twenty.

“Did you see the dog?” she asked, near the end of the job.

Her father shook his head. “When I do, I’m going to shoot it,” he said calmly.

Cordelia was stunned into silence for several seconds. “You’re -- why would you do that?”

“It’s a pestilence.” There was no anger in his voice. “It’s ruining a perfectly respectable flower farm, it needs to be dealt with. Just like an infestation.”

“It’s someone’s  _ dog, _ Daddy.”

Her father clenched his trowel just a bit tighter. “Cordelia, it’s wandering around in the middle of the woods. It’s just a stray. And why are you so worked up about it, anyway? Since when do you care about a dog?”

_ Since that dog led me to the only person I care about anymore,  _ Cordelia thought. But arguing would only lead to more suspicion, so she stayed quiet.

“Hm?” Her father moved towards her, and Cordelia felt her heart begin to pound. He wasn’t a violent kind of man, had never raised a hand towards Cordelia or Fiona, but it didn’t change the fact that he was bearing down on her, blocking the sun with his tall, thin frame. “What’s going on with you, Cordelia? You’re never home. You don’t speak to me or your mother or anyone else. Are you sick? Are you --” he looked down at her abdomen, and his eyes took on a sudden kindness. “Is it  _ that time? _ ”

Cordelia shook her head violently, taking a half-step back. “No, no, I’m fine, Daddy. I’m sorry. I’m just busy at school. And I -- I do come home, but I -- it’s just that I spend all my free time inside with Mama. I’m sorry,” she said again. She pressed the tears back to the roof of her mouth. They burned her throat as her father put a hand on her shoulder, pulling her in for a shaky embrace.

“I really do need to get back to her,” she mumbled against his chest. “I’m sorry.”

Her father held her at arm’s length. “Go,” he said. “We’re done here.”

Just before she turned away she saw a flash of movement from behind him. Misty stopped just at the edge of the trees and locked eyes with Cordelia. She smiled, and as if in slow motion Cordelia saw her raise an arm to wave.

She spun out of her father’s arms and practically sprinted up the steps to the house.

“I just don’t know what we’re going to do with her,” she heard her father say, later that same night, as she was pressed against the shared wall of their bedrooms.

“She’s a teenager, Ambroise.” That was her mother, further away, exerting herself as she climbed into bed. “She’s just acting up.”

“That’s exactly the problem. She’s  _ not  _ acting up. She’s so quiet. And she’s never home.”

“She  _ is _ home, Ambroise. She’s just inside with me.”

“Well, God knows I could use her more than you at this point!”

“She’s tiny, Ambroise. She can hardly wash the heavy pot for dinner. She can’t help you.”

“And who’s going to?” 

Fiona didn’t speak for a while after that. Cordelia pulled her ear away from the wall, slumping against it. The whole house filled slowly with an air of aggression, a kind of tenseness that made it impossible for Cordelia to hide the tears that fell onto her bare thighs, onto the floor below her as she dropped her forehead onto her knees. Duke Ellington slipped into her room, presumably having been scared off by the yelling in the other room, and she reached out to stroke him idly without looking up.

After a time her mother said something else, muttered under her breath so Cordelia couldn’t hear, and her father shouted back. Cordelia wrapped her arms around her neck, covering her ears, and blocked out their words. They rarely got into fights like this, preferring to avoid each other entirely, but every so often one of them said something that set the other off and Cordelia spent the night shoving her face into her pillow, suffocating herself until she thought she would pass out and then gasping in a breath before doing it all again. 

It wasn’t that she wanted to die, not really. She knew of the people who suffocated themselves on purpose, or shot themselves in the mouth, or took a bottleful of sleeping pills and lay in the tub, and she wasn’t one of them. But she did sometimes fantasize about being  _ gone _ for a while. Being out of this house. Of this life.

She heard a crash from behind the wall, the sound of glass breaking, and then she heard her father scream, “Jesus Christ, Fiona!” So her mother had thrown a lamp, or a glass, maybe. That happened sometimes. Cordelia eyed the open window next to her and realized she did, in fact, have a way to escape. Slowly, silently, she rose from her spot at the wall and crossed to her dresser, though she needn’t have been so quiet -- she could hardly hear herself open the drawer over the shouting in the next room. She slid a knitted sweater over her head and picked up her school bag, filling it with a change of clothes, toothbrush, and hairbrush. 

Cordelia stepped out into the hallway. Her parents’ door was open, and her mother’s eyes latched onto her as soon as she was within their line of sight. “Cordelia?”

“I’m going to Marie’s,” she said. “To sleep.” It was a stupid lie, not in the least bit believable, and there was no way her mother would let her go --

“We’ll see you in the morning, Cordelia.” That was her father, standing in front of the door and half-shutting it behind him so Cordelia couldn’t see what carnage they’d unleashed on the room. “Stick to the main road.”

“Ambroise? Are you insane?” Fiona hissed from inside the room, but he just slipped back inside and shut the door in Cordelia’s face. The force of it -- not quite a slam but close enough to make her jump -- sent a current of air whooshing into her face, stirring her hair at her shoulders. 

Her father said something back, but Cordelia didn’t hear it. She was already halfway out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song: "come september" by anais mitchell & rachel ries (the version off of Country EP, not the version off of XOA, which is just as good but has different vibes u know)


	6. wanna listen to the sound of you blinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they share a bed in this one, guys! also, we meet misty's mom and listen to more carter family because fuck i just love em so much.

Cordelia did not stick to the main road. Dimly she wondered if she would even remember how to get to Misty’s house in the dark -- she’d made the journey a dozen times now, both alone and with Misty, but never after sunset, and never when she felt like she was running away from something. In case her parents were watching, she made sure to follow the path from her house up to Rue Fortin before doubling back through the woods to the south. She clung to the shoulder of the road for as long as she could, suddenly very aware of her own heartbeat, trying to remember the landmarks by feel alone. 

Just as she thought she might have been lost the trees around her cleared and she saw the familiar overgrown garden surrounding Misty’s house. Misty’s mother was outside, lying spread-eagle on the ground. Through the reflection of the moonlight Cordelia could see her blue eyes, so much like Misty’s. She’d seen Misty’s mother once or twice, coming home just before she left, but she’d never been home when Cordelia was there. She worked outside the house these days, meeting clients at their own homes.

As Cordelia approached she lifted her head. “Hello?” she called softly, her voice hoarse from the cold and the damp.

“Hello, Madame Day. It’s Cordelia. Misty’s friend.”

Misty’s mother pushed herself up to a sitting position. “Cordelia. It’s the middle of the night?” She asked this as if she wasn’t really sure herself.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Cordelia shook her head. “It’s -- my parents are fighting, and they’re getting rather nasty about it, and I just didn’t know where else to go.”

“Oh, Cordelia,” she murmured, rising to her feet. “Let’s get you inside.”

Inside, Misty had been sleeping, Salem curled at her feet, but she stirred when her mother opened the door. “Mama. Who’s here?”

Misty’s mother put an arm around Cordelia. Her arm was cold and a little damp from lying in the grass, but Cordelia relaxed into the touch nonetheless. “It’s your friend.”

“Cordelia?” Misty sat up, reaching an arm out to feel her. Cordelia took Misty’s hand and squeezed it. “What are you doing here?”

“Her parents are fighting.”

Misty clicked her tongue sympathetically. “Come here.” She pushed Salem off of her bed, and the dog leapt across the gap onto her mother’s.

Cordelia sat on the bed next to Misty and leaned into her. Her body was heavy with tiredness and she was already half-asleep on Misty’s shoulder. 

“Do you want my bed?” Misty’s mother asked, gesturing to the empty bed behind them. “I can sleep on the floor.”

“No, no, no,” said Cordelia, slurring the words together. “It’s your house. I’ll take the floor.”

“Are you sure?” Misty asked, rumbling into her shoulder.

“Yes. It’s really fine.”

Misty’s mother looked her over once, then turned her gaze to Misty. They exchanged a look, then her mother shrugged and took a blanket off her own bed. Misty gathered one up as well, and Cordelia lifted her own head to allow them to make a spot for her on the rug -- right in front of the fire, she noticed.

“We don’t have an extra pillow,” Misty said apologetically. “But you can have mine.”

Cordelia shook her head. “I’ll just use my bag,” she said, shrugging it off her shoulder. 

Misty nodded and sat down once more on the bed. “Are you going back out, Mama?”

“No, I was just about to come back inside. It’s late.”

“What were you doing?” Cordelia asked. Four eyes turned to her, and panic rushed through her as she realized how rude the question must sound. “Sorry, that’s really invasive, I shouldn’t have --”

“Cordelia, it’s alright,” said Misty’s mother, smiling and waving a hand in her direction. “I was absorbing the full moon’s energy.”

“Sometimes she does it naked,” said Misty, prompting her mother to push her into the bed.

“Only in the summer,” she reminded her daughter. “It’s too cold for that now.”

“Of course.” Misty smiled at her mother, and then at Cordelia, and Cordelia felt her heart might burst at the love she could feel between them. Misty’s relationship with her mother, like everything else about her, seemed to come so _naturally_ to her. 

Misty’s mother walked past Cordelia’s spot on the floor, past Misty’s bed, and laid down in her own. “We’ll talk in the morning, Cordelia. Sleep well.”

Cordelia closed her eyes and succumbed to sleep.

As it turned out, the floor was not as comfortable as she had hoped. The rug beneath her was itchy and the blankets not nearly warm enough, even with the fire right near her, which was slowly dying. She turned herself over slowly, methodically, like an animal on a spit, trying to warm her body evenly.

After a few fitful hours of tossing and turning, and a cumulative half hour of sleep, she heard a rustling behind her and turned to look at Misty’s bed. Her friend was leaning up on her side, watching Cordelia. When their eyes met, Misty whispered, “Cordelia. Come here.”

Cordelia cocked her head at Misty but said nothing. Misty raised one hand to wave Cordelia over. “C’mere.”

Cordelia raised herself up on her knees and shuffled to the side of the bed. Misty’s face was yellow-orange in the firelight, and it reminded Cordelia of the persimmons this time of year, of the sunsets in the orchard.

Misty moved over in her bed, away from Cordelia. “You looked cold,” she said. “And uncomfortable.” She patted the mattress next to her.

“You want me to… share a bed with you?”

“We’ll keep each other warm.”

Her logic was sound. Cordelia swung herself up onto the bed and brought the covers down over her body. Misty’s mother was still sound asleep, snoring softly as she lay on her side facing the wall. Cordelia turned on her side, facing away from Misty, and waited for Misty to do the same. 

She didn’t. Cordelia sensed Misty’s legs curving parallel to her own, not quite nesting behind them but close enough for her to feel. She held her breath, eyes wide open, and felt her heart begin to race. What was Misty doing? Her mother had lay with her like this when she was younger, when Cordelia had a fever and couldn’t sleep. But Misty wasn’t her mother and Cordelia wasn’t sick.

Come to think of it, she was feeling rather feverish.

Finally she felt Misty tip onto her back. There was a puff of air behind her, a soft exhale, and Cordelia let out her own out as well. Misty’s bed was much more comfortable than the floor, and warmer, too, even further from the fire. Still, the unfamiliarity of the house and the body next to her made it difficult for her to fall asleep, and more than once she wanted to turn over onto her other side. But it felt invasive, to be staring at Misty so closely like that, to be so near to her face. 

After what felt like an hour, Cordelia found her arm nearly asleep and felt herself turning over before she realized it. Suddenly she was very close to Misty’s sleeping face, which she could hardly see in the dark, but if she reached out she could trace the soft line of her nose. Not that she was thinking about doing that, because she wasn’t. But if she wanted to. She could.

She didn’t know what to do with her left arm, the one she’d been laying on. She stretched it out behind her, rolling her shoulder gently, and then laid it on her side. Misty hadn’t stirred. Cordelia considered rolling onto her back, but there wasn’t enough room for them both to be side by side like that -- Cordelia was nearly falling off the bed as it was. 

The fire flickered and died out behind them, briefly illuminating Misty’s face, and Cordelia was struck by just how beautiful she looked. She could be the most popular girl in school if she wanted to, hell, she could probably be a movie star. Cordelia realized she was horrifically, hopelessly jealous of Misty, and squashed down the feelings she felt tying themselves up in her stomach. She tried to relax, to allow her mind to succumb to sleep, and she was almost there. But there was still some kind of tension in her body, as if she was holding something back.

“Misty,” she breathed out before she could stop herself.

Misty let out a sound without opening her eyes. Cordelia wondered if she’d been awake the whole time.

Slowly, deliberately, Cordelia raised her left arm and floated it over Misty’s abdomen.

“Is this okay?”

The question hung above them, dissipating into the cold air, and Cordelia had half a mind to jump up and sprint all the way back home. But then Misty whispered, “Yes,” and Cordelia melted into the bed. She lowered her arm to drape it over Misty’s stomach, fingers wrapping around the curve of her waist, and she relaxed for the first time that night. 

Just before her eyes closed Cordelia thought she saw, or maybe felt, Misty’s lips curve into a smile.

Cordelia woke before Misty did, as the first slivers of dawn fell over their faces. She’d moved closer to Misty during the night, her face now half-buried in a mess of blond curls. Cordelia inhaled sharply as she shuffled back. She could smell Misty’s hair, earthy and oddly metallic. She eased her arm up and off of Misty, rolling onto her back and bracing an arm against the ground before she fell. 

It wasn’t long before Misty was awake too, chest rising suddenly as she took her first breath like she was being birthed again. Misty’s mother seemed to wake at the same moment, turning over to face the girls. Salem, for his part, raised his head sleepily before closing his eyes again.

“Morning, ladies,” she said, sitting up on her feet.

“Morning, Madame Day.”

Misty’s mother waved a hand dismissively at Cordelia. “None of that,” she said, voice rough and sticky with sleep. “Call me Gloria.”

 _Gloria._ Cordelia appreciated the familial, even loving gesture, but she squirmed at the idea of calling an adult by their first name. It felt so improper, especially for a woman like Gloria, for the mother of a girl like Misty.

Misty curled herself upwards, swinging her legs around to sit off the edge of the bed. Cordelia now had room to push up and off the mattress and spring to her feet.

Gloria chuckled. “Someone’s got energy.” She rubbed her face with her hand, wiping away sleep from the corners of her eyes. Placing a hand on Misty’s leg, she murmured, “How are you, love?”

“Good.” Misty leaned forward to drop her head onto her mother’s shoulder. “Can we have eggs for breakfast?”

“Mm.” Gloria put her hand on the back of her daughter’s head. “If you want, darling. Though I don’t know when we’ll be able to get more.”

“Don’t feel like you have to,” Cordelia said, feeling rather stupid. “For me, I mean. I’m perfectly happy with oleo on toast.”

“But _I_ want eggs,” Misty whined, leaning back and turning to look at her. She had a sly grin on her face. “And anyway, they’re going to go bad. Someone should eat them.”

“And three will eat them faster than two,” added Gloria. She rose to her feet and pulled on a robe over her nightgown. Here in the naked light of the early morning it felt all too indecent to Cordelia. She averted her eyes as Gloria walked past her to the icebox and pulled out a cardboard carton, cut in half, containing four eggs. “We’ve been saving up,” she explained.

Cordelia’s family didn’t save their eggs, or anything else. Tuesdays were the days Ambroise went to the grocery store and brought home an egg, which Fiona sometimes let Cordelia have for breakfast on Wednesday mornings. Today was Sunday. She wondered if Misty and her mother went to church. 

They probably didn’t.

Not that it mattered to her. Cordelia’s parents didn’t go either, hence why they let her stay at Misty’s house -- well, they thought it was Marie’s -- on a Saturday night. 

As it turned out, Gloria’s eggs were something close to godliness. She had mixed them with something (milk, Cordelia supposed, though that was being rationed as well) and didn’t stir them all the way so there were ripples of yolk and white throughout and they were hot and delicious and so unlike Cordelia’s usual meals that she had to say, aloud, “These are… divine.” Salem seemed to agree, sitting so politely next to Cordelia as he stared up at her that she had to slip him a piece.

Gloria threw her head back and laughed. “They’re only eggs, darling, but thank you.” There were only two chairs at the table, so she sat in the armchair on the other side of the room. “Misty, should we put something on?”

Misty’s eyes sparkled, and she slapped her fork down, practically falling across the room to get to the record player. “Which one?”

“How about that one I like, the waltz?”

“Right, ‘I Never Will Marry.’” Misty nodded and ran her fingers along the spines of the 78s. Their wrappers were carefully labeled, though Cordelia couldn’t read them so far away, but she caught a glimpse of the title of the one Misty finally picked out.

“This song might as well be my mother’s national anthem,” said Misty, smiling lazily at Cordelia.

“Minus the suicide part,” Gloria put in. She took the record from Misty’s hand and eased it onto the spindle. This song had three voices, not two like the other songs Misty had shown her, and one was a man’s. 

“Is this the Carter Family?”

Misty grinned. “You’re learning to recognize them!”

“I quite like them. Who’s the third voice?”

“Sara’s former husband. His name’s A.P. Carter.”

Cordelia nodded. “You sure know a lot about them.”

“They’re just fantastic,” Misty said. “I wish I’d heard them before they split up.”

“They split up?” Cordelia felt an inexplicable pang of grief, if not for herself, then for Misty. How cruel, that they would stop performing together before Misty could see them in person.

“Their contract ran out. I think Mother Maybelle plays with her daughters now, and as for Sara and A.P., no one’s really seen much of them.”

The song ended, and Gloria moved the needle to play it again. “What’s on the other side of this?” she asked her daughter.

“‘Wabash Cannonball,’” she responded, automatically.

Gloria turned to give Cordelia a knowing look. “See? She’s crazy about them.”

Cordelia smiled and tucked back into her eggs.

She ended up staying for the rest of the morning, helping Gloria with the dishes despite Gloria’s polite protests, and it wasn’t until nearly eleven-thirty that Misty said, “Don’t you have to be back?”

As much as she wanted to stay here forever, in this house of warmth and music and eggs sent from heaven, Misty was right. Her parents were probably worried sick, and if she stayed later they might even call the Laveaus to see what was taking her so long to get back. Cordelia’s hands tightened at the thought. “Yes,” she admitted. “I should go.” She looked between Gloria and Misty. “Thank you for breakfast. And allowing me to stay. And --” she nearly said _sharing your bed_ , but the words caught in her throat. “Well. For everything.”

“Oh, love.” Gloria stepped forward and embraced her, swaying back and forth as her chin rested on Cordelia’s head. “You’re welcome anytime. Just come over, okay?”

Cordelia nodded into Gloria’s shirt, which came away wet when she pulled back. Cordelia hadn’t even realized she’d been crying. 

“I’ll walk with you,” said Misty. “Salem should get a walk in. It’s supposed to snow today.”

Gloria clapped her hands together. “Oh, thank you, Misty. And, oh, if you see any lavender, please bring me some. I’d hate for the cold to ruin it.”

“Lavender? We grow that at home.”

“Really?” Gloria’s eyes widened. “I don’t suppose…”

“I’ll bring some next time I come over,” Cordelia promised. 

It wasn’t until Cordelia and Misty, with Salem running up ahead, were halfway to Cordelia’s house that Cordelia realized she probably wouldn’t be able to keep that promise. Between Salem’s destruction of two different flowers and the upcoming winter, Cordelia’s father was extremely watchful of the flowers they had left. She stopped walking and turned to face Misty, ready to open her mouth to speak, but Misty spoke first.

“Why did you ignore me?”

Cordelia opened her mouth, then closed it. “Sorry?”

“Yesterday, when you were in the garden. I waved at you and you didn’t even look back.”

“Oh.” It felt like so long ago now. “I didn’t… see you. Sorry.”

“Bullshit,” said Misty, and Cordelia flinched at the curse. “You looked me in the eyes and turned around and left.”

“I was fighting with my father,” she protested, but her voice was weak. “He said --” Panic rose in her as she remembered what they were fighting about. “He said he was going to kill Salem if he got into our garden again.”

“ _What?_ Didn’t you tell him?”

“Tell him what?”

Misty rolled her eyes. “That Salem belongs to one of your dear friends and you’d really prefer he didn’t kill him?”

This was the conversation Cordelia had been avoiding. “Well, they don’t. Um. They don’t exactly… know. About you?”

Misty’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“They don’t know I’ve been spending time with you. They may not even know you exist.”

She shook her head and scoffed. “Where do they think you went last night, then? Or did you sneak out?”

“I told them I was going to a friend’s house. Another friend. Not you.” It sounded callous, even to Cordelia, and she cringed at her own awkwardness.

Misty took a step forward, and Cordelia moved in step with her, letting her set a slower pace back to the farm. “Why don’t you just tell them?”

And there it was, the question Cordelia hadn’t asked herself simply because she didn’t know the answer. She just got the strange feeling her parents would disapprove of Misty, of her mother, of her way of life, and by extension that they would disapprove of Cordelia. And then she’d have to explain why she’d lied, and she’d face consequences for that, and altogether it was easier to just keep Misty a secret, safely tucked away in a corner of her brain, at least for the time being. How could she explain all that to Misty, though, without making her feel like a freak, or someone to be ashamed of?

She still hadn’t answered Misty by the time they reached the fence. Salem, thankfully, had stayed in their sight the whole time, and Misty scooped him up in her arms before he could wriggle under the fence to wreak havoc on the black-eyed susans. Cordelia expected to see anger or malice in her eyes when she looked up, but she found neither, just that same pure and open love that had always been there.

“Are you going to tell them?” she asked, gently, in a way that let Cordelia know she wasn’t pressuring her. 

“I --” She sighed. “Not yet.”

Misty smiled. “I’ll see you soon, Cordelia.”

Cordelia watched Misty turn and walk back into the trees, setting the dog back down when he was safely away from the fence. It was a long time before she finally ducked back under the fence and went up the path to her house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song: "anything" by adrienne lenker


	7. here i am, laid out beside your fireside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's christmas, and/or hanukkah!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOO! holiday chapter! this is the first time a chapter almost lines up with what time of year it actually is. i don't know when that's going to happen again.
> 
> TW in this chapter for anti-semitic slurs & harassment, vague discussions of the holocaust, and a death at the very end.
> 
> also, today is, ironically, holocaust remembrance day. sending love to any jewish readers out there. let's be friends!

Christmas that year brought with it joy and sorrow in equal measure. There was some battle being waged over in Italy, and from what Cordelia picked up from the radio it was bloody. Her mother didn’t like to hear about the violence while they worked, and her father didn’t like to hear about it while he was eating, so she had to steal bits and pieces of it from the evening news, between helping with dinner and eating it, in those precious few minutes where her father was still outside working and her mother in her bedroom doing paperwork.

She hadn’t seen Misty since that night in September, though she’d been back to their house twice, once a few days after Thanksgiving and once in mid-November. Each time Misty had been out on a walk with Salem, or out grocery shopping. “You can stay and wait for her, if you like,” Gloria had said both times. But Cordelia had been too busy -- it was mid-harvest, after all -- and she’d declined both times. The first time she’d left a ginger cookie her mother had been pragmatic enough to make a batch of for Thanksgiving, with a note attached apologizing for how busy she was and for not having any extra lavender to bring as she’d promised. Then, as it turned out, she’d managed to steal a bundle of lavender off the bed of their truck, just seven or eight sprigs, and she’d left it there the second time.

For Christmas her parents had gotten her a new journal, a hardcover one with a pretty buckle on the cover.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, reverently, running her hands over the binding. She guessed it must be vintage because of the metal rations. That meant it had been expensive. “Can we afford this?”

Her mother puckered her lips. “It’s none of your business what we can and can’t afford, Cordelia.”

“I just wish I’d gotten you something,” she said, standing up from her place on the floor. They hadn’t gotten a tree this year, too much of a hassle in an already busy season, but her father had wrapped Cordelia’s lone present and laid it beneath a potted plant in the living room.

(She knew it had been her father because she’d seen him do it earlier that morning; he’d been too tired and drunk to do it the night before, and told her as such.)

“You know what you can get me?” her father asked, stamping out the stump of his cigarette onto the ashtray. “Another smoke. They’re in the kitchen.”

Cordelia obliged, going into the kitchen to shake out another cigarette for her father. When she came back into the living room her mother was gone.

“She went back to bed,” he said, before Cordelia could ask. “And so will I, probably.”

Cordelia blinked. “It’s _Christmas._ ”

“Yes.” Her father seemed annoyed, as if he didn’t understand what Cordelia was saying. Cordelia wasn’t sure she did herself. She had been looking forward to spending the day with her family for a change, for her father not to work himself half to death as usual, for her mother not to hold her prisoner in the dining room for most of the day. But of course that was a foolish hope -- her father was tired, her mother stressed out and irritated, and it would be selfish of Cordelia to demand they entertain her simply because it was a holiday.

“Well.” Cordelia smoothed her dress -- she’d put on a nice outfit for what she’d thought would be a celebration. “Where should I go?”

Her father shrugged. “Church, or something.”

“Should I… walk?”

“I don’t know, Cordelia,” he groaned, sticking the cigarette between his teeth. “Just be careful of the snow and be home before dinner.”

Without another word he turned and followed Fiona into their room. Cordelia was left standing in the living room, supposedly about to go to church.

The church was a twenty-minute drive on good days, too far to walk, but Cordelia found herself trudging up the side of the road anyway. Studying the way the snow crushed itself into prints under her boots, she listened to the wind and the crunch of the snow beneath her. She listened for cars, too, but there wasn’t much traffic on this road this early in the morning.

She did, eventually, see the road ahead of her illuminated by a car behind her, and when Cordelia turned around she was nearly blinded by the headlights. The car slowed to a stop next to her, and Cordelia caught eyes with Madame Snow in the driver’s seat.

Her teacher rolled down the window. “Cordelia? Whatever are you doing out here?”

“Merry Christmas, Madame Snow,” she said. “I’m walking to church.”

Madame Snow laughed. “You’re walking to La Fabrique? Alone? Where are your parents?”

“Asleep.”

“Asleep?” Madame Snow’s laughing demeanor was gone, replaced by genuine concern. “You’re just going without them?”

“I’m not really sure where I’m going, actually.”

Madame Snow gave a small shake of her head. “Oh, darling, come in. You’ll catch your death out there.” She moved her handbag off the passenger seat and patted it twice, inviting Cordelia in.

“You don’t have to drive me,” said Cordelia. “It’s really -- I wasn’t really going all the way there.”

“I should hope not! Get in, my child!”

Cordelia ducked her head and moved around the front of the car. It, like Madame Snow’s hair and glasses, was flaming red, and Cordelia wondered if the woman was aware of the existence of any other colors. Madame Snow leaned over and pushed open the door for her. It was, Cordelia had to admit, much warmer inside the car as she slid into the seat. She closed the door behind her and stared at the road ahead of her. “Where were you headed to?”

“I need some candles,” she said.

“You’re not going to church?” 

Madame Snow laughed again. “I’m a Jew, love.”

“Oh.” Cordelia swallowed and folded her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…”

“And how could you have? I don’t tell my students.”

“Right.” Cordelia felt suddenly awkward. Between the war and the obscenely Christian holiday she imagined Madame Snow wasn’t having a fantastic Saturday, and now she was shuttling some poor girl around like a cab driver.

“You’re feeling guilty,” Madame Snow said. “Don’t. I wouldn’t have picked you up if I didn’t care about you.”

Cordelia suppressed a gasp. How had she known?

“I know everything, darling. You leave it all on your face.”

Cordelia turned to look out the window, hiding the blush that had crept up her neck and onto her cheeks. 

“What do you need candles for?”

“Hanukkah,” she said. “I had a big box of candles but I dropped them yesterday.”

“Oh. Are you not supposed to use candles that have touched the ground?”

“Not when they’ve snapped clean in half, no.” Cordelia could hear the smile in her voice. They pulled up in front of the general store. Myrtle shut the car off and turned to look at Cordelia, her hair wobbling and swaying like a sheet of cellophane. “I’ll only be a moment. You can stay here or come with me.”

“I’ll stay here,” said Cordelia. She didn’t want to occupy any more of the woman’s time than she already had, and was certain she’d be a nuisance in the store. But surprisingly, Madame Snow looked sympathetic -- almost disappointed.

“Right,” she said. “I’ll be back.” She opened the car door, shoving it against a snowbank that was in the way as she got out, and made her way to the front door of the store.

Cordelia felt herself opening her own door and clambering out to join her. It was colder outside, though the snow had let up for the time being, and she shivered, wrapping her coat tighter around herself. Madame Snow didn’t say anything, just smiled knowingly as she pushed the door open.

Inside, Madame Snow greeted the young lady at the register -- by name, she noticed, though Cordelia didn’t recognize her -- and asked if they had any candles.

“How big?”

“Thin,” she said. “Taper candles, if you have them.”

“We’ve got a few. How many do you need?”

“Forty.”

The girl sucked in a breath. “That’s an awful lot of candles. What do you need them for?”

“Well.” Madame Snow waved a hand dismissively. “It’s the holidays.” 

“And what are you doing with forty taper candles over the holidays?” She seemed suspicious now, and the tension hanging between them made Cordelia’s heart race. She turned away, fingering a sport cap that hung on a hook by the door. Two dollars. She wondered if Misty would like it.

“I’m… celebrating.” Madame Snow’s voice was clipped, speaking in the tone she only used when she was threatening a caning.

“It’s Christmas morning,” the girl responding, goadingly. “Shouldn’t you be all ready by now?”

“I had candles. I dropped them. And I’d appreciate it if you gave me a fresh box before New Year’s, please.”

They stared at each other for a moment, looking rather like a pair of cats about to tear each other apart. Madame Snow looked about to unsheathe her claws before the girl pulled out two boxes of thin blue candles and pushed them towards her. 

“Happy Hanukkah, kike.”

Madame Snow’s nostrils flared. She presented a dollar and fifty cents to the girl. “Keep the change,” she said, smirking. Her long skirt flared up around her as she whirled around and out of the store.

Cordelia followed her out to the car. “What was that -- that word she said?” she asked once they were safely inside.

“What, ‘kike?’” Cordelia nodded, prompting a dejected sigh from Madame Snow. “It’s a rather nasty word for Jewish people. You shouldn’t use it.”

 _Oh._ Immediately Cordelia felt her face burn with anger for Madame Snow. “I’m sorry. That’s horrible.”

“All par for the course, my darling, when you live in a small farming town.”

“Is it hard? Living in a place like this?”

She glanced at Cordelia. Through her bright glasses Cordelia could see her face was serious. “There are worse places I could be, right now.”

“Oh, right, of course. I’m sorry. I just meant…”

“Relax, love, I’m only teasing. It’s good to have a sense of humor about these things.”

Cordelia nodded, turning the concept over in her mind. To have a sense of humor about one’s own people being slaughtered just an ocean away.

“Did you know that girl?”

“She was my student, once.”

“And she called you…”

“I was a particularly harsh grader,” Myrtle sighed. “Now, shall I take you to church?”

It was really the last place Cordelia wanted to be, now. “Could you actually just -- could we go home?”

She didn’t realize her mistake until she’d already said it. She’d meant to ask if Madame Snow could take _her_ home, so she could sit inside and write in her new journal, maybe even spend some time with her parents if they were up for it. But when she said it aloud she realized she really _did_ want to go to Madame Snow’s house, keep basking in the warmth of her gaze and her words. She felt more at home in this car than she did at her own home. It made her feel strangely guilty, selfish even, but Madame Snow said, “Sure, if you help me with lunch,” and Cordelia nodded, and that was that.

Cordelia wasn’t sure what she’d expected her teacher’s house to look like -- walls stacked floor to ceiling with books, maybe? -- but she was struck by just how _normal_ it was. It looked rather like her own house, or like Marie’s, or really any other house she’d been in. Madame Snow led her into the kitchen where a pot of some thick stew had been sitting on the unlit stove, and they spent the better part of an hour cooking together. Cordelia was surprised by how she knew instinctively where most things were, guessing correctly on the silverware and the spices on the first try. 

When they had finished, Madame Snow poured them both a bowl and directed Cordelia to sit down at the kitchen table. 

“Where did you get these?” Cordelia asked, caressing the bouquet of tulips that stood proudly between them. “They’re not ours, are they?”

Madame Snow’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe. Your father owns the shop on Rue Beaupré?”

“That’s the one.”

She nodded, leaning back in her chair. “It’s lovely. I’m amazed you get blooms like this, in the dead of winter.”

Cordelia ducked her head. “It’s not easy.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“What, working on the farm?” Cordelia took another spoonful of stew. “Sure. I mean, it’s all I’ve ever done.”

Madame Snow set down her spoon. “What would you do,” she began, “if you could do anything?”

The question set a fire under her feet. It was the very one she was hoping to put off answering forever, if she could, or at the very least until -- what? She wasn’t sure what she was waiting for.

She shifted in her seat and felt rather like she was burning at the stake. “I’m not sure what there is that I’m particularly good at,” she laughed.

Madame Snow’s eyebrows furrowed. “You’re incredibly bright, Cordelia.” She reached across the table to take Cordelia’s hand. The sheer intimacy of the gesture made Cordelia’s heart race.

“I just --” She faltered. Madame Snow gave her hand an encouraging squeeze. “I’ve never thought that far ahead,” she admitted quietly.

“Then what _would_ you do, dear? If you could do anything at all?”

Cordelia swallowed. There were few things she dreamed of, few things she let herself hope for. Fewer than few, really.

“I can’t -- I can’t think of anything. I’m sorry.”

Madame Snow had that same kind look in her eye as she removed her glasses to study Cordelia’s face more closely. From this close up she looked so old, so frail to Cordelia, her skin like a faded piece of cloth. Her eyes, Cordelia noticed, didn’t quite match -- one was pale blue, the other dark brown.

She let Cordelia’s hand go, picking up her spoon again and swallowing a bit of stew. “You’ll find it,” she said. “You’re young.”

And Cordelia picked up her own spoon, finishing the last of her stew and standing up to put her bowl in the sink. “Did you know you wanted to be a teacher? When you were young?”

“Ha! I didn’t want to be a teacher, Cordelia. Not until much later.” She smiled. “I still don’t, sometimes. Adolescents are insufferable.”

Cordelia was reminded of the rumors she’d heard, how Madame Snow was a failed American actress and was left with no choice but to teach children in a small Canadian town. “What did you want to be?”

“An actress,” she said. “I wanted to be Ruth in ‘The Pirates Of Penzance’ ever since I was a little girl.” She took out a cigarette from some hidden pocket of her dress and lit it. “Never did work out, though. The closest I came was -- well, I was very nearly a Ziegfeld girl.”

“A -- sorry?”

Madame Snow looked at her curiously. “My, am I that old? The Ziegfeld Follies, darling, on Broadway. Ran for nearly thirty years. They had these girls, young women, dancing and strutting about showing off their legs. I got a callback, but --” she blew out a puff of smoke “-- they found out I lied about my age.”

“How old were you?”

“Thirty-five,” she said. “So, practically dead.”

Cordelia let out a surprised little laugh. “How long have you been here?” She knew Madame Snow had been living in Charlevoix as long as she’d been alive, but the idea that this woman had lived such a _life_ \-- it thrilled her.

“My, it must be nearly twenty years,” she said. “I moved here in 1925.”

“Eighteen, then.” Cordelia murmured. It seemed so vast; longer than Cordelia had been alive. 

“You’re good at math.”

Cordelia smiled.

Madame Snow turned to look at the clock. “When do you have to be back?”

“Not until dinner,” she said. “Though I’d like to stay here all day.”

“Would you now?” Madame Snow’s smile was inscrutable as she took another drag of the cigarette.

“I mean -- I don’t mean to intrude. I’ll get out of your hair. Just say the word.”

Madame Snow scoffed. “No, Cordelia, if you’d like to stay, you can stay.”

“...Really?”

She tapped the cigarette into the ashtray. “Well, I’d like you to stay.”

Cordelia exhaled slowly. “I think I’d like to, too.”

Rising from her chair, Madame Snow moved to the telephone on the kitchen counter. “Do you know your parents’ phone number?” Cordelia shook her head. “I should have it in here. I keep a list of all my students,” she explained, opening a drawer and rifling through a stack of papers. “Ah! Here it is.”

As she turned the dial Cordelia asked, “Could I use your restroom, Madame Snow?”

“Yes, just around the corner on the right.”

“Thank you.”

When Cordelia returned, Madame Snow was still on the phone with her parents. “I just hate to see a young lady alone at Christmas. You know I found her _walking_ to the church? In the snow?”

She paused, and Cordelia tried to listen to whoever was on the other side, whether it was her mother’s sharp retorts or her father’s listless denial. But try as she might she could hear nothing until Madame Snow spoke again.

“Monsieur Goode, have you been drinking?” It was her father, then. “I can practically smell it through the phone.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I’ll drive her home later tonight.” She paused. “My, aren’t you anxious to be rid of her. Yes, I’ll come by in the morning. No, I have things for her here.” _In the morning?_ Could it be she was staying over at Madame Snow’s house?

Finally Madame Snow set down the phone and turned to look at Cordelia. “How you’ve turned out so bright with parents like _that_ , I’ve no idea.”

Cordelia’s lips curled up in a modest smile, but she felt a burst of shame as well, a need to defend them. “They’re not horrible.”

“No,” she admitted, “But you deserve better than ‘not horrible,’ my darling.” She put a hand over Cordelia’s again. “Now. We’ve got all day, Cordelia. Anywhere in particular you’d like to go?”

She shook her head, then paused with her head cocked. “There’s… I have a friend I’d like to see.”

“Sure, love, what’s her address?” Madame Snow picked up her car keys.

“She doesn’t… she lives in the woods.”

Madame Snow’s eyes widened. “You mean the Days? Gloria Day?” 

“You know them?”

“Oh, sure, darling!” Madame Snow waved a hand in the air. “Gloria’s salves do wonders for my arthritis. And the girl -- I haven’t spoken to her much, but she seems lovely. You know them?”

Cordelia nodded enthusiastically. “Misty’s a dear friend of mine.”

“Misty, that was it. Yes. Well, I imagine they must be freezing half to death what with all this snow. Shall we invite them to dinner?”

“Oh, that sounds --” Cordelia gasped. “That sounds lovely.”

Madame Snow smiled and dialed another number, this one known by heart. After a moment someone picked up, judging by the glint in Madame Snow’s eye. “Oh, hello, Gloria!” She chuckled. “Happy holidays to you as well. Listen, I’ve got Cordelia Goode with me, she’s one of my students -- yes, the little flower shop on Beaupré! yes, she told me she knew you -- anyway, we were wondering if the both of you might like to come over for dinner tonight. I’m making latkes.” She laughed again. “Yes, you can bring the dog. But wash him first. I don’t want muddy slush all over my carpets. All right. Four-thirty?” She nodded. “Fantastic. See you tonight, darling. Take care.” She replaced the phone once more. Turning to Cordelia, she asked, “Have you ever had a latke, Cordelia?”

Cordelia shook her head.

“They’re divine. In a very… debauched sort of way. I’d ask for help cooking them, but if I’m honest, I don’t trust anyone with this recipe except my own mother.” Smiling wryly, she added, “And she’s been in the ground for twenty-five years.”

Cordelia was hit with a rush of sympathetic realization: that for all of Madame Snow’s years of adventures, of grandiose achievements and sheer _fun_ that Cordelia yearned for, she must have also had so much sorrow. To be unmarried at her age, presumably childless -- she’d likely lost nearly all her close family and friends. Tears burned at the back of her eyes and threatened to slip out.

Madame Snow seemed to notice it, looking at Cordelia sternly over her glasses, which she’d put on while Cordelia was in the bathroom. “That was a joke, Cordelia. You can laugh.”

“Sorry,” she said. “It just wasn’t…”

“Funny? My, you’re a tough audience.” She winked, and Cordelia let out a breath of what felt like relief.

“It was. I just wasn’t expecting it is all.”

Madame Snow made a “hm” sound, the meaning of which Cordelia couldn’t parse. “Would you like something to read? I’ve got oodles of books in the living room.”

The strangeness of the word _oodles_ in Madame Snow’s mouth made Cordelia giggle. She allowed Madame Snow to lead her into the living room and sweep her arm over a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. “Pick any one you like,” she said.

The prospect was overwhelming. “Which one’s your favorite?” she asked.

Madame Snow put a finger to her lips. “My, what a question. I do love this one,” she said, pulling out a thin volume. She pressed it into Cordelia’s hands.

“‘The Children’s Hour.’” 

Madame Snow nodded. “I would have tried out for it if I was still in New York. Though if I was too old at thirty-five I imagine at fifty-five I’d be laughable.”

“It’s a play?”

“Yes. I find them easy to digest. You can picture the characters any way you like.” She gestured to the armchair next to the shelf. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to put some music on, alright?”

Cordelia nodded and settled in. It was a strange way to spend Christmas, in her Jewish teacher’s house without any of her family, but Cordelia had a feeling it was better than whatever her parents would have done with her. 

_The Children’s Hour_ was a strange kind of play. Cordelia picked up on the plot rather quickly: two best friends, teachers at a boarding school, were accused by a vengeful student of having improper relations, and families pulled their girls out of the school in droves. She’d never read anything like this before. It frightened her, if she was honest, filled her with a strange kind of peripheral anxiety, as if she’d be punished for reading it. But if Madame Snow loved it, Cordelia decided, it must be worth reading.

She was nearly to the end, in the midst of a long, confusing monologue, when the phone rang. Cordelia heard it first. The room swirled with some Mozart piece Cordelia didn’t recognize, and the sharp sound (and smell) of something being fried in oil floated above everything, but finally she heard Madame Snow pick up the phone. “Hello?”

She was quiet for a minute, then. Cordelia’s heart picked up speed. She had a sinking feeling in her stomach. Madame Snow was rarely quiet.

“I see,” she said quietly. “Yes, I’ll fetch her. Cordelia?” she called into the living room.

“Yes, coming,” said Cordelia, tossing the book onto the chair behind her as she made a beeline for the kitchen.

“It’s Misty,” said Madame Snow, holding the phone out to her with a kind of distant sadness in her eyes. Cordelia nodded and held the phone to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Cordelia,” Misty breathed on the other end. Her voice was shaky.

“Misty? What’s wrong?” She heard only a broken sob. “Misty?”

“It’s Salem,” Misty cried. “He’s been shot.”

Cordelia’s spine twisted into itself. One of her hands found purchase on the back of the chair next to her. 

_When I see that dog, I’m going to shoot it._

“Where was he?”

“He was,” said Misty between sobs, “he wasn’t doing nothing. He was between our houses. Halfway.”

Cordelia brought a hand to her mouth.”I’m coming over,” she promised. 

“You don’t have to --”

“I want to.” _I need to,_ she thought, though she wasn’t sure where that particular sentiment had come from. She looked at Madame Snow, a question in her eyes, and Madame Snow nodded, picking up her car keys.

Cordelia took a deep breath. “We’ll be right over.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song: "morning bugle" by john hartford. i'm a fan of both of his versions, and though i like the one off "steam powered aereo-takes" better i think the one off of "morning bugle" better fits this chapter (they have different lyrics and entirely different vibes). crooked still and courtney hartman also have fabulous versions.
> 
> also, there's a free pdf of the children's hour somewhere and you all should go read it. it's fucking great.
> 
> thank you for reading! :]


	8. in the shadow of the cypress tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> misty's grieving. cordelia comforts her, but mourning is contagious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo... i killed the dog. sorry. I'M SORRY.
> 
> re: trigger warnings, there's not a lot of gore or grossness here, but like, they do hang out with salem's corpse and by his grave and shit. really more angsty than anything else.

Madame Snow had hardly stopped the car before Cordelia leapt out of it and ran into the woods. They’d parked at where Cordelia thought was halfway between their houses, or at least the section of the road running parallel to it, and  _ God, _ Cordelia hoped she’d guessed correctly. She could navigate the woods fairly well by now under normal circumstances, but between the snow that had begun to fall and her frantic emotional state she wasn’t sure she could find her way. She stopped to catch her breath, rooted to the spot as her boots slowly sunk into the snow beneath her, and looked back and forth, studying the trees for any kind of sign.

She felt Madame Snow take her hand behind her. “Cordelia, darling, don’t tire yourself out. We won’t gain anything from getting there faster.”

“I just need to be there  _ now, _ ” she whined, but when Madame Snow squeezed her hand (half lovingly, half as a reprimand) she allowed her breathing to slow down.

“Let’s go forward,” Madame Snow suggested. They walked hand in hand for several minutes, Cordelia searching for anything she recognized, but she hadn’t been this far into the woods since the last time she’d visited Misty’s house, and that was over a month ago.

“Should I call out to her?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Cordelia took a deep breath. “Misty!” she called. “Misty, can you hear me?”

Silence. Cordelia was reminded of the second time they’d met, when Cordelia had ventured into the forest just beyond her own property and called Misty’s name just like this.

“Cordelia?” Her head shot up. The shout came from her right, to the north, and she slipped out of Madame Snow’s hand and took off running, stumbling through the snow in an effort to reach her.

“Misty --” she breathed as she spotted Misty’s huddled form crouched in a clearing, but whatever she was planning to say died in her throat as she saw what Misty was hovering over. The snow was stained dark red, nearly purple-black with blood, and a lifeless mound of flesh that had once been Salem lay atop it. 

Cordelia rushed to Misty, bending down to embrace her from behind. Misty didn’t react, just kept shuddering from the cold (and, Cordelia was sure, from the tears streaming down her face). “Misty,” she said again, holding her tighter, arms crossing over Misty’s own. It reminded her of the night she’d slept over, how she’d wound up half-holding Misty.

She didn’t like the rush of warmth that crept up her at that memory. Not at all.

Misty suddenly snapped, wriggling out of her grasp, and turned around to stare Cordelia in the face. Her eyes were shards of glass. “Was it him?” she whispered.

“I don’t -- I don’t know,” Cordelia stammered, but she did, of course. They both did. “I’m so sorry, Misty.”

“Why didn’t you tell him? About us?”

“I don’t know,” she repeated helplessly. “I didn’t think…”

“No,” Misty said, standing up and brushing snow off her pants. “You didn’t think.”

“Misty, I promise, if I had any idea he was going to do this --”

“But you did, didn’t you? He  _ told _ you, Cordelia.”

“I know,” Cordelia sobbed, “I know, I’m sorry,  _ God, _ Misty, I don’t know what I was thinking, I don’t know why I didn’t tell him, I’m -- you probably hate me right now, and you should, I’ve been so awful --”

“Cordelia,” came Madame Snow’s voice behind her. She took a step forward and put a hand on Cordelia’s shoulder. “Self-hatred won’t do you any favors right now.”

Cordelia forced herself to take a shaking breath in. She exhaled around a cough and opened her eyes -- she hadn’t realized she’d closed them. Misty looked angry, still, but there was worry in her gaze as well.

“Misty,” Madame Snow said evenly, “come with me. I’ll drive you home.”

“It’s not far,” Misty protested.

“No, but I don’t want you carrying Salem all the way home. The snow’s getting worse.”

Misty bit her lip and nodded. 

“Are you coming, Cordelia?”

“I should get home,” she said quietly. She felt suddenly exhausted -- of body and of heart -- and as much as she wanted to be with Misty, she didn’t think Misty wanted to be with her.

Thankfully, Madame Snow didn’t press the issue. “Are you alright to walk?” She turned Cordelia’s head and put a hand under her chin.

“Yes, Madame Snow.” She swallowed. “Thank you. For today.”

“Of course, love. I’ll see you at school.”

Cordelia nodded and looked at Misty. “I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I’m so --”

“Stop.” Misty screwed her eyes shut. “It wasn’t your fault.”

_ It was, _ Cordelia thought, but she was too tired to argue further.

“I’ll see you soon?” Cordelia asked. 

Misty opened her eyes, looking everywhere but at Cordelia. “I guess.”

Cordelia’s face burned with tears, with humiliation. She ducked her head and turned away from Misty, pointedly avoiding the corpse behind her, as she made her way back home.

Once she’d returned she pushed the door open to see her father on the couch, drink in hand. “You’re home,” he slurred. “Why?”

“I didn’t feel well,” she said. “Madame Snow dropped me off.”

Her father nodded. “Took care of that damn dog earlier.”

“Oh.” And there it was. Cordelia felt her hands shaking. “I’m going to go to my room.”

“Take off your boots first. Your mother’ll kill me if the carpet gets wet.”

Cordelia did, studying her father the whole time. He looked ten years older than when she’d left, his face aging the way it did whenever he was drunk, and he stared blankly out the window at the snow falling. She hated seeing him like this, pathetic and despairing. Her mother did too, she knew. It seemed her parents saw each other less and less.

She made her way to the beginning of the hallway and was about to turn into her bedroom when she turned to cross the room once more, bending to wrap her arms around her father’s neck. He was sweaty despite the cold and reeked of cigarettes and alcohol. Holding her breath, Cordelia whispered, “Merry Christmas, Daddy.”

He grunted softly, squeezing Cordelia’s arm with the hand not holding the beer. “Merry Christmas, Cordelia.”

Cordelia expected to be tossing and turning for hours, ruminating over everything she’d done wrong (she could have told her father about Misty right then and there, for God’s sake), but she found her eyes slipping closed the moment she collapsed on her bed. She fell asleep with her coat still on.

The next morning she found herself outside Misty’s house, having slipped out early while her mother and father were still asleep. She raised a hand to knock on the door, but the sound of crunching footsteps behind her stopped her. She turned to see Gloria coming up the path, carrying a bowl of something reddish-brown.

“Morning, Delia,” she said. The nickname was unfamiliar to Cordelia. She’d heard it before, when she was much younger and her father was much happier (her mother had never been one for nicknames), but it had been a long time. 

“Morning, Gloria.” If she had felt any happier she would have smiled at the inadvertent joke, but she couldn’t bring her lips to move any more. As it was her face was practically frozen from the cold. “Do you know where Misty is?”

Gloria nodded and turned to look down the road. “She’s been out there visiting Salem all morning. She would have slept there, too, but I didn’t let her.” She gestured to the bowl in her hands. “Tried to get her to eat something, this morning, but she wouldn’t have it.”

“Can I go visit her?”

Gloria blinked. “I don’t see why not. She’s just west of here, by the creek.” Pushing the bowl into Cordelia’s hands, she added, “And will you give her this gumbo? If she doesn’t want it, you can have it. Someone should eat it before it gets cold.”

“Oh -- thank you,” she said, taking the bowl gladly. It warmed her hands immediately and she gripped it tighter. Gloria smiled and moved past her into the house.

She found Misty at the creek, bent over a spot where the snow had been haphazardly cleared away to reveal a raised mound of wet earth. She looked exactly as she had the day before, and Cordelia noticed she was approaching from the same angle. This time, however, she said nothing as she came to kneel at Misty’s side. Misty made no move to acknowledge her presence.

Cordelia studied the grave for a moment, the small stones laid at what she assumed was the head of it, and then studied Misty. She had expected to see tears on the girl’s face, but there were none. Her eyes looked nearly translucent, so blue and clear and  _ God, _ so  _ sad. _ Misty looked as if she were willing herself to split in two, as if whatever she was feeling would be worse than that.

Finally she could bear the silence no longer. “Your mother told me to give you this soup,” she said. It was the only thing she could think to say.

Misty said nothing.

Cordelia paused. “She said you’ve been here all morning. How long have you been up?”

A slow shrug. 

Tentatively, Cordelia reached over to take one of Misty’s hands in hers. Her fingers were freezing, but Misty didn’t pull away.

“I know you said to stop apologizing, but I’m so --” She took a deep breath. “I just wish it hadn’t happened, is all.”

Misty flexed her fingers, once, and Cordelia couldn’t tell if it was meant in forgiveness. She swept her gaze over Misty’s stony face once more and looked back at the grave. They stayed like that for several moments, connected in the spaces between their fingers. In the back of her mind Cordelia thought of the soup growing cold next to her. It wasn’t snowing yet, but if it did, Cordelia resolved to force Misty to eat it -- she doubted Misty had eaten anything since yesterday afternoon.

“Myrtle brought the stones,” said Misty. Her voice was hoarse, and understandably so; she had been sitting out in the cold in silence for, Cordelia guessed, several hours. “She said it was a Jewish tradition.”

“Really?”

Misty nodded. “More permanent than flowers, she said.”

It seemed Misty didn’t want to say more after that, so Cordelia pulled her hand away, allowing Misty to be alone with her thoughts. But Misty, strangely enough, reached out and grabbed her hand back. Cordelia looked at her, surprised, and then let herself relax. Her bottom was growing wet from the snow she was sitting on, but she found she didn’t mind. The creek, not yet frozen over despite the cold, burbled gently in front of them, and she heard Misty’s slow breaths in and out next to her. 

Despite the circumstances it was so _ peaceful _ it made Cordelia want to cry.

She jumped at the feeling of a snowflake landing on her nose and looked up to see snow beginning to fall. “We should go, Misty,” she said, trying to stand up. Misty held her hand tighter, not yet tugging her back down but not letting her up either. “Misty, you’ll catch your death out here. Let’s go.”

Misty gave a tight shake of her head, refusing to tear her eyes away from the grave.

“Misty,  _ please? _ ”

She watched Misty’s eyes shut tight, watched her chest rise and fall, and finally, watched her hair bounce up and down as she gave a slow nod. 

“You can come back,” she murmured as she helped Misty to her feet. “Later today, even.”

“Will you…” Misty’s voice was soft, timid, so unlike her usual self that Cordelia scarcely recognized it was coming from her. “Will you come back?”

A small piece of Cordelia’s heart broke off and shattered. “Yes, Misty,” she said. “I’ll be back.”

She did come back later that day, trudging back through the snow to knock on Misty’s door and ask if she was ready to go back. When they returned, the soup lay cold and watery where they had left it. Misty spoke about as much as she had the first time. She came back the next day, too, and twice a day through New Year’s Eve. Each day Misty said a grand total of about fifteen words. Sometimes she cried. Often she didn’t. Most of the time she just held Cordelia’s hand.

Once, during one of their evening pilgrimages to the creek, Misty laid her head on Cordelia’s shoulder. It was awkward, given how much taller she was than Cordelia, but she seemed comfortable enough that Cordelia allowed her to stay until they stood up to leave. They always did so wordlessly, and nearly in sync, communicating silently through little glances and shifts in posture. 

(Cordelia also imagined she could understand Misty’s thoughts -- some of them, at least -- through the spot they were joined, where Cordelia’s palm met Misty’s.)

On New Year’s Eve Misty asked Cordelia what she was doing for the holiday. This was the one celebration for which she  _ did _ have plans with her family, but she almost wished she didn’t. She hardly wanted to spend time with them now, after what her father had done. Not that he knew what he’d done, anyway, but Cordelia did, and it made her stomach twist into itself every time she looked him in the eye.

“My family and I are going to have dinner and discuss our hopes and goals for the year,” she told Misty. “We’ve done that since I was a baby.”

“Oh.” She asked no further questions, and Cordelia floundered for something to say.

“Do you have any goals for the year?”

Misty heaved a sigh. “I want to stop having to do this every day.”

“What, coming to visit Salem?”

Misty nodded.

“You’ll heal,” Cordelia reassured her. “It’s like any other illness. You keep taking your medicine, and slowly you get better.”

Misty mumbled something that sounded like  _ it hurts, _ and Cordelia squeezed her hand tighter.

“Look at me, Misty,” she said, and Misty did. “You are the bravest person I know. You will heal from this. I promise.”

Misty’s eyes seemed to bore straight down into the core of Cordelia, fixing her to the spot where she was kneeling against the snow. Her blue eyes, pale and shining like ice crystals, were wet with tears.

“I love you, Cordelia.”

Cordelia blinked. “I love you too, Misty. You’re my best friend.”

Misty smiled, and there was sadness in it, but she allowed Cordelia to help her up and lead her back to the house.

“My mother and I are going to Baie-Saint-Paul tomorrow,” said Misty. “We’ll be back next week.”

“Oh.” It would be the first day since Salem died that she wouldn’t see Misty. “Will you be all right?’

Misty sniffled and nodded. “It’s been a whole week. And you’ve made me feel… safer.”

With a surge of pride Cordelia smiled and embraced Misty. “I’ll miss you.”

Later that night, over a dinner of fish and asparagus, Cordelia was drowning under the silence hanging over the kitchen table. It didn’t feel at all like when Misty and Cordelia sat next to each other without talking. That was comfortable, comforting even, a string of love and silent understanding stretched out between them like a silver thread. Between her father and her mother, now, Cordelia could see no connection, no intimacy between them. Perhaps they’d been fighting. Her father’s drinking always got worse in the winter.

She cleared her throat. “Shall we say our resolutions for the year? I can start.” 

Neither of them said anything. Fiona speared a piece of fish with her fork.

“This year I want to work out what I want to do. Who I want to be. I’m going to work hard in school and I’m going to make something of myself.”

Her mother let out a sharp laugh. “You’ll hardly do that if you keep gallivanting off in the woods twice a day.”

Cordelia’s stomach sunk into her feet, and she had the sudden desire to crawl under the table. She settled for reaching beneath the tablecloth and scratching Duke Ellington’s head as he pressed against her leg. 

Her father, bless him, ignored Fiona’s comment and announced his own resolution. “I want to bring profits up ten to fifteen percent this year.” He paused to eat a bite of asparagus and pointed with his fork. “I think that boy we hired at the shop -- Léo -- we can take him down to three or four days a week. Cordelia’s old enough now to work the other days, and when she gets older she can start doing more farm work as well.”

“What, manning the shop?” Fiona scoffed. “She can hardly sit still long enough to make a passable corsage, let alone run a floral business.”

“She’s sitting still right now. Aren’t you?” Ambroise turned to look at her. “Do you want to learn how to run the shop?”

Cordelia had been in the shop many times -- when she was a baby her father had taken her there several times a week -- but less frequently in recent years. In truth, it seemed so distant she sometimes forgot the flowers she cut and arranged actually  _ went _ somewhere rather than just disappearing off her kitchen table, crumbling into dust overnight. And the boy, Léo, was kind; a few years older than Cordelia and, from what she’d heard from her father, very responsible and studious. He was planning to apply for university in Montreal, and would be gone within the next year, so Cordelia really had no choice but to say, “Yes.”

“See,” said Ambroise to Fiona, “she wants to learn.”

“Want’s got nothing to do with it. She needs to learn discipline. When I was her age I wasn’t allowed to go wherever I pleased whenever I pleased.” Fiona set her fork down and turned her piercing gaze to Cordelia. “I don’t know where you’ve been running off to, but I won’t have it any more. Until school starts again you’re not to leave the house without my permission. And after you go to school you’re to come straight home and help me or your father. No more of these childish adventures in the woods. What are you doing in there, anyway?”

“Um.” Cordelia swallowed a bite of fish. “Exploring.”

“What, looking for buried treasure?” Her mother smirked, and Cordelia wanted to either melt into her chair or stand and throw it at Fiona. She wasn’t sure which.

“Just thinking,” she said.

“Well, you’ll have plenty of time for  _ thinking _ while you’re doing the work you’re meant to be doing.” She wheeled herself out from under the table and took her plate to the sink. “Honestly, Cordelia, you’ve been such a pain in my neck these last few weeks, leaving all the work for me. Do you have any idea how fucking selfish you are?”

Cordelia froze in her seat. Her mother rarely cursed, and she wasn’t shouting yet, but her tone was mean and Cordelia felt herself begin to cry. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, stealing a glance at her father. 

He took another swig of his drink, and said nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song: "orange and blue" by sarah jarosz


	9. come back to me in my dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cordelia makes plans for her birthday and has her first run-in with the story's main antagonist: heterosexuality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short and bad chapter because guess what! i hit 50,000 words! that is... a lot of words! also, i'm nearly done with chapter 16 so chapter 10 is coming soon.

After that fateful New Year’s dinner Fiona announced she was aching to go to bed, and Ambroise poured himself another drink, so Cordelia went to bed to welcome in 1944 by herself, searching for the moon outside her window. It was almost-but-not-quite-full, a little less than round, and bright enough to keep her awake for several hours after midnight.

Cordelia’s mother, unfortunately, was painstakingly stringent about the rules she’d set. If Cordelia came home from school a few minutes later than usual Fiona would shout at her and threaten to beat her (though she never did -- Fiona was many things but never quite reached physical violence). On the weekends and after school, Cordelia’s fingers grew sore from fiddling with flower stems for hours on end, stopping only to do homework and help prepare dinner. But she never complained, not only knowing it would be futile but fearing what consequences her mother would give.

School, at least, was a reprieve from the constant stress. Since their spending Christmas Day together Madame Snow had been especially kind to Cordelia, even letting her eat lunch in her classroom while the other students went outside to the courtyard (or, often, simply left and didn’t come back). Sometimes she lent Cordelia plays to read during lunch. Other times they discussed books or told stories. Much of the time they simply enjoyed each other’s silence.

“Your birthday’s coming up soon, isn’t it?” asked Madame Snow one day in April.

“In May.” Cordelia nodded.

“My, that’s special. Are you doing anything in particular?”

“Probably not. May’s rather busy. We need to prepare for the summer.”

“Surely you could take a day off to celebrate your own birthday.”

Cordelia laughed and shook her head. “My mother’s really been very strict with me lately. I can’t leave the house without her permission.”

“So sneak out,” said Madame Snow, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

Cordelia tilted her head and ran a hand through her hair. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I just… can’t.”

Madame Snow silently scrutinized her, eyes narrowed under those red glasses. Cordelia felt like a laboratory specimen.

“And you’re my teacher. Why are you endorsing this sort of behavior, anyway?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps I just want you to have a little fun. Get into some trouble. Live a little, Cordelia.” Leaning across her desk to look at Cordelia, she asked, “What  _ would _ you do for your birthday? If you could do anything?”

The question was nearly identical to the one Madame Snow had posed at her house on Christmas. This time, unlike that time, Cordelia had an answer.

“I haven’t seen Misty since New Year’s,” she admitted. “I haven’t been able to deliver a message or anything. God, she must hate me.”

“You want to see Misty?”

Cordelia nodded. “I’ve missed her.”

Madame Snow’s eyes crinkled at the edges. She looked Cordelia up and down for a moment, peering into the very depths of her soul, and then rapped her knuckles on the desk. “Tell you what, darling. On your birthday, instead of coming here, I want you to go to Misty’s house.”

“Sorry?” 

“I won’t tell your parents, of course. But I want you to have some time off to enjoy your birthday.”

“But -- I’ll miss class,” Cordelia sputtered.

Madame Snow waved her hand in the air. “Oh, please, Cordelia. It’s not as if we’re learning anything terribly important right now. And, honestly, I have absolutely no reason to be worried about you. You’re brilliant.”

Cordelia glowed at the praise. It seemed like such a strange thing, to be allowed -- nay,  _ encouraged  _ \-- to skip class and spend time with a friend instead. But Misty, she supposed, was a strange kind of friend. 

After a long moment, Cordelia nodded. “Thank you so much, Madame. I really appreciate it.”

“Of course, love. Now you’d best finish your sandwich -- it won’t be long until the others come back in.”

Cordelia obliged, finishing the last of her bologna and putting the empty brown bag in her backpack just as the clock struck twelve-thirty and the first students came back inside. Levi, the Jewish immigrant, was one of the first, taking his seat next to Cordelia and smiling at her. He had been smiling at her an awful lot lately. Cordelia couldn’t tell if she minded or not.

In the five minutes between lunch and the start of afternoon class nearly everyone came back. By the time Madame Snow stood up everyone was in their seats except for Madeleine, who was always late, and Marie, who rarely was, even though the two were practically inseparable at this point. Marie’s absence was odd enough that Madame Snow asked where she was, and another student -- Zoe, who peripherally interacted with both of them -- said that she didn’t know, except that they were together.

“Hm,” said Madame Snow. She waited a moment, eyes flicking to the open door, and then moved to close it. “Well, I do hope they come back. We’ve got a lot to cover today.”

Cordelia couldn’t remember what they had been working on, too busy thinking of her upcoming celebration with Misty and the thrill of planning to ditch school. She’d always disdained Madeleine and her other former friends for being so disrespectful and foolish as to simply skip class, but now that she had the consent of her teacher she understood the feeling. Perhaps that defeated the purpose, she mused, but she and Madeleine were very different people, after all.

She was so lost in thought that she almost didn’t notice Levi reaching over to tap her desk with the fingers of his right hand. “Cordelia?”

Cordelia startled and looked at him. “Yes?”

“Er.” His cheeks were flushed. “I was wondering if you’d maybe like to go to Spalding’s Diner with me after school today. Only if you’d like to, that is.”

It was such a strange request that Cordelia found herself unable to form words for a time. Go to the diner? With Levi? She wondered if he was asking her on a date. The thought made her sick to her stomach. She shook her head and smiled.

“I’m sorry, Levi. My mother’s got me working for her all day.”

His face fell -- he tried to hide it, but Cordelia caught the way his eyes crinkled and his lips drooped. “Tomorrow, then?” he asked. “Or sometime next week?”

Cordelia clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, pretending to think. “I’m awfully busy,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s -- I understand.” Levi shook his head and leaned back into his seat. 

Cordelia nearly felt sorry for him. At the same time, she was bewildered by what he’d just done. Levi was easily the most attractive boy in the class. He could have asked any other girl to Spalding’s and she would have said yes. 

So why had he asked Cordelia? More importantly, why had she refused? 

Before she could contemplate it any longer it was two-thirty and Madame Snow was dismissing the class. Around Cordelia her classmates stood up and filed out of the room, the sound of chairs scraping against the wooden floor assaulting her ears. Levi lingered between their desks just a moment too long, but when Cordelia didn’t move he, too, left the room, leaving only Madame Snow and Cordelia.

“Are you quite all right, chickadee?”

Cordelia looked up and finally began packing her things. “Yes.”

“What was the Fadenrecht boy saying to you? Nothing too crude, I hope.”

“No, no, nothing like that,” said Cordelia. “He asked me on a date, actually.”

“Really!” Madame Snow clasped her hands together and set her chin on them in interest.

“I said no. I’m not sure why.”

“Hm,” said Madame Snow. “Love is a strange thing.”

Cordelia smiled and stood up, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I thought kids my age couldn’t fall in love.”

“No, I suppose not. I’ll see you tomorrow, dear.”

“See you tomorrow.” Cordelia was nearly to the door when she stopped and turned around. “Madame Snow?”

“Yes, love?”

“I don’t have a way to let Misty know I’m coming. Could you tell her for me?”

Madame Snow smiled. “Of course, darling.”

“And could you -- ” Cordelia paused. “Could you tell her I’m sorry I haven’t visited, and that my mother won’t let me leave the house?”

“Yes, I’ll let her know."

"Thank you, Madame Snow."

"Bye now, Cordelia.”

The next morning, Cordelia arrived a few minutes early and was about to sit down when Madame Snow called her up to the front of the room. She approached, looking down at Madame Snow as she rummaged through her desk. The roots of her flaming red hair were growing back in, deep brown and frizzy.

“Yes, Madame?”

Madame Snow closed the drawer and looked up at her. “I telephoned Gloria last night to relay your message to Misty.”

“Oh! Thank you.”

She nodded. “Misty said she can’t wait to see you, and she understands why you haven’t come. Though she misses you.”

“I miss her too,” said Cordelia, half to herself. “Thank you for telling her, Madame. And for letting me go in the first place. I really appreciate it.”

Madame Snow reached across the desk to put her hand over Cordelia’s. “You deserve it, my darling. You deserve the world.”

Cordelia flushed and turned away before she could start crying. 

As she sat down she noticed Levi looking at her out of the corner of his eye, but he was silent. She felt a twinge of sympathy for him, having to sit next to her after being flat-out rejected the day before, but she still couldn’t comprehend what had happened between them yesterday. Was this awkwardness what a crush felt like? Perhaps she’d been too quick in rejecting him. He was a nice enough boy and one of the brightest students in the class. She had half a mind to take him up on his offer, but she knew her father would be livid if she went on a date with a boy, and her mother would call her selfish, lazy, vain. Worse names, even. Dirty ones.

Perhaps when she was older she’d go to the diner with him.

Several weeks later Cordelia woke up before the sun rose, eyelids flying open as soon as the first morning dove cooed outside her window. The days leading up to her birthday had felt increasingly longer (which, technically, they were) and by the night before she could hardly bear it. But she would need her energy if she was going to get to Misty’s and back and do all the work with her mother as well, so she had willed herself to fall asleep quickly. Her excitement caught her on the tail end, though, and here she was, wide awake practically before dawn. Cordelia turned over onto her side, nearly knocking Duke Ellington off the bed, and hugged her pillow, chasing a few extra minutes of sleep.

She dreamed that she and Misty were in the orchard, Misty slicing a nectarine with a pocket knife and handing Cordelia pieces of it. Misty told some joke and Cordelia laughed, and then they looked at each other more seriously and Misty said, “Happy birthday,” and Cordelia smiled and pressed closer to her, leaning her head on Misty’s soft shoulder.

As she eased her eyes open she was rather disappointed to find that she was resting on her own pillow and not Misty, but the sun was now beginning to rise and Cordelia wanted time to shower and eat before she left. Stretching her arms above her, she dropped herself out of bed and padded down the hallway, poking her head in the dining room where her mother was reading the morning paper.

“Good morning, Mama.”

Fiona hardly glanced up. “Morning, Cordelia.”

“Where’s Daddy?” He was usually still nursing a cup of coffee by this time, fighting the sickness he always had after nights he’d been drinking (which was nearly every night), but the living room and kitchen were empty.

“Gone out,” said Fiona. 

“Oh.” Cordelia moved to the kitchen, opening the icebox in search of jelly or peanut butter. “Where to?”

“Fuck if I know,” she responded, and Cordelia froze.

Without turning around or moving her hand from its searching place inside the icebox, she asked, “Are you angry with me?”

Fiona sighed. “I’m angry with him. Or rather, he’s angry with me.”

“But you’re not angry with me.”

“No, Cordelia, I’m not angry with you,” said Fiona, although she sounded like she was.

Oh, what did it matter? In just an hour or so Cordelia would be gone and all the anger and resentment in that house would have the whole morning and afternoon to disappear. She wasn’t expected back until four, and if she got back early her parents would be suspicious, so she had to time it just right.

Finally locating a jar of lemon marmalade near the back of the icebox, Cordelia spread it on a piece of Wonder Bread and ate it in three bites. She’d planned to savor it, to look out the window and eat it jelly side down so that she could taste it better, but she found she just couldn’t resist lemon marmalade.

Fiona stayed in the same spot while Cordelia cleaned up the knife, showered and got dressed, still not saying a word. This wasn’t unusual, but Cordelia felt a twinge of sadness every time she crossed in front of her without being acknowledged. She had nearly gone out the door when she paused and asked, “Did you forget, Mama?”

“Forget what?”

“It’s my birthday today.”

Fiona rolled her eyes. “What do you expect, balloons raining from the sky? Breakfast in bed?”

“No, but --” Cordelia sighed. “A ‘Happy birthday’ would be nice.”

“Happy birthday. How’s that?” Fiona rustled her paper noisily, indicating the end of the conversation. Cordelia bit the inside of her cheek and slipped out the door and over the fence.

Misty was waiting outside by the time Cordelia reached her house, out of breath and sweating under her blouse. “Did you  _ run _ here, birthday girl?”

Smiling, Cordelia said, “I did.”

Misty laughed and pushed herself off the wall she was leaning against. “Why?”

“I didn’t want to waste any time.”

“So economical. You’re a fantastic businesswoman, Cordelia.”

Cordelia laughed and ran a hand through her hair. They stood there and looked at each other, neither quite knowing what to say. The last time Cordelia had seen Misty they’d been bundled up next to Misty’s dog’s grave and Misty had been about to leave for -- where was it? Baie-St-Paul, that was it. She almost asked how the trip had been, but it had been nearly six months now since they’d left and it felt like such a useless question. Misty was dressed for spring, in a flowing blouse that came nearly to her elbows and a pair of light blue overalls. Cordelia felt rather overdressed in what she’d thought of as her “party outfit,” now realizing that this was not really a party in any normal sense.

“Hi,” said Misty finally.

“Hi,” Cordelia breathed in response.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

Misty’s mouth broke into that familiar grin that Cordelia had missed so much. “I got a new Carter Family single two days ago but I haven’t listened to it yet. Do you want to come in?”

“Yes, Misty,” Cordelia sighed happily. “I’d love to.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song: it's another carter family one, y'all!! "happy or lonesome." check it out.


	10. all i can give you is this gentle heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> misty & cordelia celebrate cordelia's birthday!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay! things to know:
> 
> -more of the carter family! go listen to foggy mountain top. i fucking love it.
> 
> -the dirty dobro joke was told to me at a bluegrass festival by my friend mike. thanks, mike. bet you didn't think it would find its way into american horror story fanfiction.
> 
> -every time i try to explain how a dobro works it goes about as well as it does here so watch this video for fun tunes. or don't. i recommend so much fucking music to you guys i'm sorry https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3dtPc3wNxOg

“Why haven’t you listened to it yet?” Cordelia asked as she eased into the wooden chair at Misty’s kitchen table. Gloria would be working until late in the afternoon, so Misty and Cordelia had the house to themselves. “I would think you wouldn’t be able to resist Mother Michelle.”

“It’s Mother  _ Maybelle _ , mind you. And if we’re honest…” Misty bit her lip as she put the record on. “I was saving it for you.”

“For me?”

Misty nodded and set the needle. “Once I heard you were coming I wanted to give you some kind of a birthday present. I’m not sure this counts, but it’s something.”

“Oh, Misty,” said Cordelia. “You didn’t have to do anything special for me.”

“Well, that’s what we’re doing, isn’t it? Something special?”

Cordelia was about to respond, but the first notes of the song rang out and Cordelia knew she had to be silent. 

Misty sat down across from her and smiled. Her eyes didn’t leave Cordelia’s for such a long time that Cordelia wondered if Misty was trying to start a staring contest. 

After a full verse and chorus she broke away, looking off to the left at her own bed. Cordelia swept her eyes over Misty’s face for a moment, then she looked away as well. Mother Maybelle wasn’t singing lead on this one, Cordelia could tell -- it was a man’s voice. “What’s that instrument she’s playing?” she asked Misty, listening to Maybelle play what sounded like a guitar whose strings were being bent around and plucked like rubber bands.

“It’s a slide guitar. A dobro.”

“A what?”

Misty blew air through her lips and tried to demonstrate with her hands. “It’s like a guitar, but the strings are really high up. You use a metal bar to change the notes and pluck it with your other hand.”

Cordelia shook her head. Misty’s gestures were vague and confusing, looking more like she was casting a spell than playing an imaginary instrument. “Well, it sounds nice.”

“There’s a joke about it,” said Misty, “but it’s rather crude.”

“What is it?” said Cordelia, leaning in and resting her chin in her palm.

Misty leaned in as well and said lowly, “You rub it with one hand and tickle it with the other. If you’re making it moan, you’re doing it right.”

She capped the joke off with a wink, waiting for Cordelia to get it, and laughed at the blush that rose on Cordelia’s cheeks when she finally did. “Oh,  _ Misty _ \-- where did you hear  _ that? _ ”

“A man in Baie-St-Paul told me. It’s where I ordered the record from.”

“Wow.” Cordelia laughed again, hard, and shook her head. “That’s really -- that’s horrible.”

“I’ve got more where that came from.”

Cordelia wiped tears from her eyes. “Stop!” She was used to hearing jokes like this from the boys in her class, usually at the expense of herself or some other girl, but it shocked her every time. But somehow, the way Misty spoke didn’t seem disrespectful at all, even if it was vulgar.

“Okay, okay, sorry. I’ll go turn the record over.” Misty stood and did just that, choosing to sit on the floor by the record player instead of coming back to the table. The other side of the record was faster and rollicking, the kind of thing someone could dance to. Cordelia wasn’t one for dancing, or maybe it had just always felt so foreign and impossible to her, but she thought it might be nice to dance to this one. She couldn’t bring herself to get out of the chair, though, not wanting to disrupt Misty’s introspective listening session. Her eyes were closed, head slowly bobbing back and forth as she swayed to the beat. She looked as if she were about to float away.

The song ended and Misty stayed on the ground, eyes slowly opening as if she were waking up from a dream. Her mouth fell into a lazy smile.

“Did you like that one?” asked Cordelia.

Misty nodded. “Can we listen again?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t want to -- it’s your birthday --”

“Misty.” Cordelia looked her in the eye. “It’s okay. Let’s listen to it again.”

“Okay.” Misty nodded slowly. “And then we’ll go on a walk. It’s a gorgeous day.”

The song was almost better the second time, now familiar enough for Misty to hum along. “What’s this one called?” Cordelia asked.

“‘Foggy Mountain Top,’” said Misty. “The other one was ‘My Clinch Mountain Home.’”

“I like it,” said Cordelia. “You could almost dance to it.”

At the word  _ dance _ Misty’s eyes flew open. She stood up from her chair so fast Cordelia was half afraid she’d knock it over. “Come on!” she exclaimed, reaching out a hand towards Cordelia, who quickly shook her head.

“Oh, no, I --”

“You’re right, Delia. It does make you want to dance.” Misty began to move back and forth on her feet, almost skipping. It was nothing Cordelia would consider particularly  _ good _ but it was so full of unabashed joy that she had to laugh.

She was still nervous, though, was still self-conscious and inexplicably paranoid that someone would see her, but as she saw Misty make more of a fool of herself she finally gave in and stood up, taking Misty’s outstretched hand.

Misty hooked her elbow around Cordelia’s and spun them around, at first to the beat, then faster and faster, until Cordelia worried they would fall over. They didn’t, thankfully, too tightly connected to each other despite being pulled in opposite directions. Then Misty slipped her arm out of Cordelia’s, causing Cordelia to sway on her feet and grab the edge of the table to maintain her footing, and continued to spin around and around. As Cordelia’s vision stopped spinning she saw Misty twirling in circles, arms stretched up to the sky, blue eyes glassy and unfocused. She looked nearly angelic like this, the sunlight pouring in from the window, blonde curls fanning out around her.

She slowed to a stop once the song was over. “What a tune, huh?”

“Yes,” said Cordelia, and it came out as a whisper.

Misty took a moment to catch her breath. “Thank you for dancing with me.”

“Of course.”

“How about that walk?”

Cordelia wasn’t sure how Misty could have so much energy so soon after all that dancing. She was nearly tripping over her own feet with every step, but Misty seemed totally unfazed, bounding to this spot and that to show Cordelia a line of ants on a fallen tree or a clump of (supposedly edible) mushrooms that Misty plucked from the ground and tucked into her bag. Misty had been right: it  _ was _ a gorgeous day, and Cordelia was immensely grateful for it. The rains that year had lasted several weeks longer than usual, and she’d fretted about the weather for days, but it had cleared up yesterday morning with no signs of more rain for a few weeks yet. Some spots were still muddy, and Cordelia was sure she was getting mud all over her Mary Janes, but what did it matter? She was on a walk in the woods with her best friend on her birthday. It was positively idyllic.

“Is your family doing anything for you?”

Cordelia laughed. “My mother hardly said goodbye to me this morning. I think she forgot, honestly.”

“She  _ forgot? _ ” Misty looked up from the owl pellet she was studying and stared at Cordelia, shocked.

“Well, she told me she didn’t. But I had to practically beg her to wish me a happy birthday.” She’d meant it to sound like a joke, but even as she said it she knew it sounded horribly depressing.

“That’s horrible.” Misty shook her head. “You don’t deserve them, Cordelia.”

“Everyone’s been telling me lately what I do or don’t deserve,” she huffed, kicking a rock out in front of her.

“Well, I’m sorry, but it’s true. You deserve to be loved, Cordelia. You deserve people that love you.”

“They love me,” Cordelia protested. “They’re just busy is all. And with my mother’s illness --”

“Multiple sclerosis doesn’t affect your ability to be a  _ good person, _ ” Misty cut in. 

“Well, sure. All I’m saying is that it’s really not as bad as I’m making it out to be. They’re good people.”

Misty sighed. “I just wish they appreciated you more is all. You’re… wonderful.”

Cordelia smiled, cheeks growing warm at the compliment. “I  _ am _ cutting class right now.”

“Ooh, you’re right. And because your teacher practically forced you to. Such a rebel.” She leaned over to gently knock into Cordelia’s shoulder. 

“Hey!” Cordelia knocked her right back. “Are you calling me boring?”

When Misty didn’t respond, Cordelia looked up at her and followed her gaze to the ground ahead of them. They’d reached the riverbank where Salem was buried, the raised mound of earth now starting to sprout mushrooms and weeds over it. Cordelia inhaled sharply; she hadn’t been back here since the grave was covered in snow back in December.

“I haven’t been back here since New Year’s,” said Misty as if she’d been reading Cordelia’s mind.

“Why not?”

Misty shrugged. “I haven’t wanted to, I guess. I haven’t needed to.”

Cordelia nodded, though she wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

“We might get another dog,” Misty continued, “if someone in town has puppies or something.”

“Do you think you want another one? So soon?”

“I’m not sure.” She looked sideways at Cordelia. “I don’t want to forget him.”

Cordelia reached her hand over to take Misty’s next to her, just as she had in the winter when they came here. “I don’t think you will.”

They stood like that, Misty’s fingers barely brushing Cordelia’s knuckles, until a rustle overhead prompted them both to look up at the trees above them. It was a swallow, royal blue and gold, swooping in to land on a branch high in the tree. Cordelia and Misty looked at each other in awe.

Then Misty pointed up, deeper into the tree. “Look,” she whispered, and Cordelia did. She saw nothing at first, just the young leaves and the deep blue sky between them, and then she saw it: a cavity in the trunk of the tree no bigger than Cordelia’s fist. The swallow hopped along the branch until it had reached the hole, and one by one tiny bird heads poked out of it, six or seven in all. Cordelia could see now that the adult swallow had a worm in its beak. Together they watched it disappear into the tree. Once again all was still, silent.

Misty spoke up again after a moment, asking, “Do you ever want to get out of here?”

Cordelia looked at Misty out of the corner of her eye. Her gaze was still fixed skyward. “And go… where?”

Misty shrugged. “Anywhere.” She let her hand fall from Cordelia’s, stepping forward to stroke the tree trunk. “It’s not so much about the going to as it is the leaving.”

“Very wise of you,” said Cordelia, smiling. 

Misty ignored her comment. “So -- do you?”

She pondered for a moment. “It’d be nice to go somewhere else, I think. To see more people. But I’m just as happy to stay here.”

“Are you?” Misty swiveled her head to Cordelia, her gaze penetrating and inquisitive but still kind. “Really?”

Cordelia bit her lip. “Do I seem unhappy?”

“Sometimes.”

The answer was entirely unexpected, striking Cordelia somewhere between her throat and her ribs, and when she opened her mouth to respond she found she didn’t know what she was planning to say.

Misty’s eyes fell away from Cordelia’s. Leaning against the tree and suddenly avoiding her gaze, she said, “I want to ask you something.”

“Sure,” said Cordelia. Already her stomach was turning itself over.

Misty fiddled with her hands. “It’s kind of a strange question. I don’t really know how to -- how to phrase it.”

“That’s fine.” Her voice was hoarse.

Misty took a deep breath and let it out. “Are you ashamed of me?”

Cordelia blinked. “What?”

“Well, you --” Misty pushed herself off of the tree and sighed. “You haven’t told your parents about me. We never go anywhere there might be other people. We just hide in the woods or in my house. Is there a  _ reason  _ for that, Cordelia? Am I really that repulsive that you can’t bear to be seen with me in public?”

“Misty, I --” Cordelia’s words broke through a ball of fear and sadness and shame that had lodged itself in her throat, causing tears to spring to her eyes and her hands to shake. “I didn’t even realize you cared.”

“That’s the  _ thing _ ,” hissed Misty. “I shouldn’t care. I don’t know why I do. I mean, if you’d told your parents about me maybe Salem would still -- I don’t know. It’s just…” She rubbed at her eye with the heel of her hand, and Cordelia couldn’t tell if she was wiping away tears or just trying to collect herself, to organize her thoughts. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Of course,” Cordelia breathed.

“Then why do you hide me the way you do?”

Cordelia bit down on the inside of her cheek. They’d edged towards this conversation before, more than once, but Cordelia had always managed to escape it. Now, however, it was staring her straight in the face with those striking blue eyes that fixed her right to the spot.

She found it was easier to think, to breathe, when she wasn’t looking directly at Misty. “I didn’t realize it was that important to you,” she said to the swallows, trying to keep her voice even.

“I don’t know why it  _ is, _ ” Misty admitted, and Cordelia realized she was crying. “People talk about me, I know. They talk about my mother.” She shook her head. “I’ve never cared. But I want…”

“You want people to see you and me?”

Misty let out the breath she’d been holding. “Yes. That’s it.”

“You want people to see us.”

“I want people to see us  _ together, _ ” she said. “I want them to know we’re friends. Best friends, even.”

“Why?” It didn’t seem altogether strange to Cordelia, but she sensed Misty was having some sort of revelation, and she wanted the whole truth from her.

Misty shrugged. “I guess I just want to prove that I can have friends. That I can be loved.”

“Prove it to them? Or to yourself?”

“Both, I think.”

Cordelia nodded. “I don’t know why I haven’t told my parents about you. I don’t think I can, for a while.”

“Why not?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? 

“They’re just -- very weird about my friends.”

“I understand,” said Misty, though Cordelia got the feeling she didn’t. “But I’m not asking to be brought home for dinner like I’m your lover, or something. I’m just asking if we could sometimes, I don’t know, go to the diner or something instead of hiding out here in the woods like two criminals on the run.”

Cordelia laughed at that. “That does sound nice.”

“Could we go now?”

“Now?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Cordelia bit her lip. Just a moment ago it had seemed such a simple thing, to spend time with her  _ in public _ , but she felt panic rise in her as she pictured sitting at a booth across from Misty.

“I’m not sure…”

“Cordelia.” Misty’s voice was gentle, but Cordelia could hear the anger in it, the hurt in it. “Why are you so afraid to be seen with me?”

It was another few moments before Cordelia said, “Do you want the truth?”

Misty snorted. “Please.”

“It’s -- not really about being seen with  _ you, _ as in, specifically you, ” she began, already tripping over her words. “It’s about being seen  _ with _ you.”

“ _ With  _ me.” Eyeing her cautiously and taking a step closer, Misty seemed to understand what Cordelia was saying even less than she had before.

She tried again. “It’s about being associated with you. Again, not you  _ specifically _ , but I just don’t --”

“Don’t what?”

Ordinarily she’d have to stop here, curse herself for not knowing how to express all the halfway-thoughts swimming around her head, but this time she felt something coming out of her, spilling up from her chest before she could stop herself.

“I don’t want people to get the wrong idea.”

She didn’t even know what it meant, what  _ she _ meant to say, but Misty seemed to understand, if the way she physically recoiled as if Cordelia had hit her was anything to go on.

“What? You think people will think we’re -- in  _ love _ , or something?”

“I guess.”

Misty huffed and ran a hand through her curls. “I don’t know why anyone would think that.”

“Well, you’re not exactly --” She gestured at Misty’s baggy riding pants, at her messy curls drawn back behind her.

“Not exactly what?”

Cordelia sighed. “You’re not exactly the most  _ feminine, _ Misty.”

Misty swallowed, not looking from Cordelia. “Well, I’m sorry I’m not the picture of a perfect and proper young lady,” she spat, popping each “p.”

“No, Misty, I promise. I love it. I love your whole… your whole thing. I love you.” It sounded hilariously awkward, but Misty’s anger softened into sadness at her words. 

“I love you,” Misty echoed. “I wish people could see that. And not think it was strange.”

Cordelia inhaled slowly, then took a step towards Misty. “Let’s go home?”

Misty nodded and put her arm through Cordelia’s, linking their elbows as they walked. It felt different from when they held hands, somehow. It felt like Misty was holding something back

When they returned Misty told Cordelia to close her eyes as she sat down at the table. Cordelia obliged, listening to Misty bustle around the room for a bit before she heard the scrape of a match being lit.

“Open your eyes,” said Misty, barely containing the smile in her voice. Cordelia did, and in front of her was a single vanilla cupcake, covered in pinkish-orange frosting, with a small candle flickering in the center.

“Oh, Misty,” Cordelia whispered, tears pricking the backs of her eyes. “You didn’t have to --”

“I wanted to,” said Misty. “It’s your fifteenth birthday, for God’s sake. You deserve a cupcake.”

She let her head drop to her chest. “Thank you,” she said. “Where did you get this?”

“I made it,” Misty said proudly. “With Mama’s help.”

“You made it?” Cordelia peeled back the wrapper to take a bite. “I didn’t realize you were a baker,” she teased.

“Well, don’t speak so soon. You haven’t tasted it yet.”

Cordelia smiled and bit into it. Misty stared at her intently, worry evident in her features.

“It’s delicious.”

Misty heaved a sigh. “Thank God.”

When Cordelia returned home that afternoon, worried she’d be caught in her lie, she went straight into the dining room where her mother had left a pile of flowers for her to cut. She did this more often lately, leaving the work for Cordelia to do so that they wouldn’t have to see each other. It didn’t sadden Cordelia in the way she supposed she should be sad, to know in the deepest parts of her that her mother didn’t care for her. Loved her, maybe, in a vague and passive sort of way, but Fiona had never done anything to  _ show _ her love, to assure Cordelia that she at the very least tolerated her presence.

Perhaps it was better this way, when they didn’t see each other. Easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song: "oh, agamemnon" by crooked still.
> 
> also, up until literally this morning this chapter was called "thousands and thousands all on this earth," from the song "deep in love" by bonny light horseman. it feels important enough to tell you that.


	11. how much faster can somebody run?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cordelia graduates from middle school! her mother, predictably, ruins the moment.

The end of eighth grade, and of Cordelia’s formal schooling in general, was marked by a little graduation ceremony that Cordelia was finally able to convince her father to attend. Parents and friends squeezed into students’ desks and onto wooden benches hauled in for the event. Madame Snow’s class lined up in alphabetical order, tittering about their plans for the summer and beyond. Cordelia stood awkwardly between Queenie Guyard and, to her great horror, Levi Fadenrecht. Further down the line she saw Madeleine whispering something to Marie next to her. 

She suddenly felt very lonely.

The door to the classroom had been propped open for several minutes, allowing guests to come in and out. Cordelia watched anxiously as unfamiliar faces slipped into the room -- though she did recognize Monsieur and Madame Laveau -- and at the last second her father lumbered into the room. She let out a breath of relief at his entrance, one that apparently did not elude the boy to her left.

“Is that your dad?” he asked. 

Cordelia nodded, in no mood to elaborate further. Thankfully, before he could come up with a response of his own, Madame Snow motioned to the last guest to shut the door and stepped to the front of the room.

“This year has been a difficult one,” she began, and Cordelia swore she could hear everyone’s silent groans. It seemed like every conversation these days was tinged with an overtone of:  _ There is a war being waged overseas, and right down on the river, and yet we continue to live as if nothing has changed, isn’t that something? _ Thankfully Madame Snow didn’t stay on the topic too long, focusing on the things the class had studied together over the course of the year, and a reflection on how the group had changed over the eight or nine years they’d been in a class together. By the time she wrapped up most of the students were eyeing the door longingly, and when they were called up one by one to receive their certificates many of them snatched it away so quickly that it nearly dropped to the floor.

Not Cordelia, though. Cordelia lingered, holding tightly onto Madame Snow’s papery hand and looking her in the eyes. From this distance she could see the difference between them, the cloudiness in one.

“Thank you,” Cordelia whispered. “For everything.”

“Oh, darling,” cooed Madame Snow. “This isn’t a goodbye, you know. Come over anytime.”

Cordelia grinned and bit her bottom lip. “I’d like that,” she admitted, and Madame Snow smiled back and ushered her over to her father.

He wasn’t drunk, thankfully, didn’t stink of alcohol like he so often did at home when he embraced his daughter. “Congratulations, Cordelia.”

She felt the rumble of his voice through his chest against her ear. “Thanks, Daddy. I love you.”

They swayed for a moment before Ambroise asked, “Who’s that boy?”

Cordelia pulled back, his hands still on her shoulders. “Which one?”

“The one who was talking to you. Next to you.” He looked past Cordelia at someone behind her, and though she didn’t dare turn around she was sure he was looking at Levi.

“Oh. That’s Levi. He’s new this year.”

“Do I need to be worried?” 

“No! No, it’s nothing like that. We’ve hardly spoken.” She flushed, and then hated herself for it, knowing it only made her appear more attracted to him.

Ambroise nodded. “I just hate to think of anyone… taking advantage of you.”

“He’s not. We’re not even friends. I promise.”

Cordelia watched her father watch Levi over her shoulder. He took a deep breath and clapped Cordelia’s shoulder. “You’re just getting to a certain age, Cordelia. You’re going to want to spend more time with boys. And, you know, that’s fine with me, just… they’ll try and pull things on you. You always have to stay one step ahead.” He pulled back to observe her, a serious look in his eye. “ _ Are _ you wanting to spend time with that boy?”

Hiding her face in her hands, Cordelia groaned, “If we’re going to talk about this, can we do it outside?  _ Please? _ ”

He laughed in response. “I’m done. For now, at least. Your mother needs you at home and I have to stop by the shop.”

She nodded and let him lead her out of the schoolhouse. Just before they crossed the threshold she paused, turning back to look one last time at the room she’d spent most of her life in, at the students she’d grown up with. At Madame Snow, who seemed to be standing in the eye of a hurricane, a fire at the heart of it all.

Cordelia gulped and raised a hand to wave goodbye. Madame Snow smiled, hands folded in front of her. She didn’t wave back.

As soon as Ambroise opened the front door to the house, Duke Ellington slipped between his ankles and bounded down the stairs, emitting a loud yowling noise that Cordelia knew to be one of fear. Cordelia swiveled around to watch him cross the front yard and disappear into the shed as Ambroise stepped inside. “Fiona?” he called, pushing his way past the door to allow Cordelia to enter behind him.

“That damn  _ cat, _ ” Cordelia heard from the dining room, followed by the squeal of Fiona’s wheelchair against the floor. She rolled into the hallway, eyes blazing with anger. “Cordelia!”

Cordelia recognized that voice -- it was one that usually was levied against Ambroise and not on herself. It seemed too mean even for Fiona, so full of spite and sheer  _ hatred. _ But here she was, seething at Cordelia from twenty feet away.

She jerked her head towards the dining room. “Come in here and look at what your cat’s done.” 

Cordelia followed her, slipping past her father and into the room. Almost immediately she felt glass crunch beneath her feet and looked down to see a mess of glass, water, and flowers scattered around the floor. 

Fiona sneered at the gasp she let out. “I went to check on dinner and I heard the crash. He was just sitting on the table as if nothing was wrong.”

“I’m sorry --”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Her mother held a hand up to silence her. “What I want is for you to do something about that cat before I take care of it myself.”

“You mean… get rid of him?”

Fiona huffed out a breath. “I don’t care what happens to him. But I don’t want to see him in this house again.”

Cordelia was stunned into silence. “He just knocked over a vase, Mama,” she stammered. “He didn’t mean to.”

“God, Cordelia, it’s disgusting how much you care for that mangy thing. You remember it’s a stray, right? You remember how you just brought it in the house one day, asked if we could keep it? With no regard for what impact it might have on  _ my _ life? On your father’s?”

Cordelia was crying now, wiping her nose on the sleeve of the nice dress she’d dug out of her closet for the occasion. Ordinarily her mother would snap at her for ruining such a fine piece of cloth, but Fiona was already too angry to care.

“Oh, quit your pathetic whining,” she hissed. “It’s not as if I’m telling you to take him out back and shoot him.” She looked past Cordelia, who turned to see that Ambroise had appeared in the doorway. “Though I’m sure your father would be happy to do so, if it comes down to that.”

_ “No,” _ Cordelia said, shaking her head emphatically. “I’ll take care of it. I promise.”

Fiona clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, voice softening just a little bit at Cordelia’s acquiescence. “I want that cat out of my house and off my property by tomorrow morning.”

“I understand,” she muttered under her breath as she turned to leave, ducking under her father’s arm and down the hallway into her room, half-slamming the door behind her.

Through the thin walls of the old house she could faintly hear her mother and father arguing, though she couldn’t make out any words. She buried her face into her pillow, feeling the cloth grow wet with her tears and spit as she sobbed into it. Her whole body seemed to be vibrating, cold and clammy, as if she’d just thrown up. She was positively sick to her stomach, even though she hadn’t eaten all day. With a shuddering breath she rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, listening to the light buzz above her.

First Salem, now Duke Ellington. There had been so much anger, so much violence, in the Goode house for so many years, and now it was full to the brim with hate and was spilling it out into the world. Cordelia took a deep breath, watching her chest rise and fall under the dress she wore. 

(She’d  _ finally  _ started to develop like the rest of her classmates, but she found that in practice growing up brought her more discomfort than pride, most of the time.)

Her heartbeat slowed to normal as she took several deep breaths in and out. Her mind, however, did not cease its racing as she considered what she was going to do with Duke. He had come to Cordelia a stray, sure, but over the years he’d gone soft, spending nearly all his time indoors. She couldn’t bear the thought of him all alone, released back into the wild. Especially in the winter -- in the snow and sleet she knew he wouldn’t last a week. 

Then it came to her.  _ Misty. _ Cordelia’s cowardice had led to the death of Misty’s beloved dog, and after their conversation several months ago she knew Misty was more hurt by it than she’d let on. It seemed only fair that she’d make it up to her by -- well, not  _ replacing _ Salem. Nothing could do that. But Cordelia had the feeling Misty would like having something to care for again, and Duke Ellington would have a loving home.

And it wasn’t like she had many other options, anyway.

She changed out of her dress and into more casual clothes, slipped on a pair of shoes, and opened the door of her room. Her mother was nowhere in sight, presumably lying down in her room, and her father was sitting in the middle of the living room holding a beer.

“Where’re you going?” he asked as she made her way to the door.

“I’m getting the cat.”

“What’re you doing with it?”

Cordelia paused, trying to think of something close enough to the truth. “I’m bringing him to a friend’s house. I think she’ll be able to take care of him.”

Ambroise nodded. “It’s for the best, Cordelia.”

“I just don’t see why --”

“Of course you don’t,” he scoffed. “You’re a child. You have a soft spot for him.” He took another sip of his beer. “Here’s the problem, Cordelia. You’ve got so much love in your heart. You think the world is all kittens and roses. A happy ever after and all that.” 

Ambroise shook his head and let out a single, bitter laugh. “But it’s not, Delia.” He set his bottle down a little too forcefully, making a sound that caused Cordelia to startle. “It’s fucking painful.”

This was a new side of her father, one that Cordelia hadn’t seen before. Gone was his usual sense of authority, his masculine prowess. Here, slumped against the back of the couch, he looked to Cordelia very small. It frightened her.

Unable to hold the weight of his despair, she turned and retreated out the front door. Ambroise was left alone in the living room.

Duke Ellington was sunning himself on top of the shed. Cordelia couldn’t fathom how he could withstand the burning heat of the metal roof. At a click of her tongue he picked his head up and stared down at her, his dark amber eyes the same color as Cordelia’s.

“Come on, baby,” she said, stretching her arms out to him. “We have to go.”

He gave a loud  _ mrow _ and laid back down on the roof. Cordelia huffed and produced a small piece of bread from her pocket.

“How about this?”

With a satisfied purr, he climbed down onto the fence and then into her arms, eagerly biting into the bread. He was complacent to rest in her arms for a while as she started making her way to Misty’s house, but he soon grew tired of all the bouncing up and down and wriggled this way and that, trying to free himself. When Cordelia tightened her grip around him, he reached out and scratched her arm, causing her to yelp in surprise and pull away. He landed on his feet, of course, and meowed up at her, half in apology and half out of pride. Cordelia was half-afraid he would run away, but he stayed at her side, butting his head against her calf.

Reaching down to stroke him gently, she murmured, “Oh, Duke. I’m really going to miss you.”

  
  


“She kicked the cat out of your  _ house?” _

“It’s so unfair. He knocked over a vase or something.” Cordelia shook her head. “I don’t know what her problem is. She never liked him.”

Misty had invited Cordelia and Duke Ellington inside as soon as she’d seen the cat padding up behind her. Now, Cordelia and Misty sat at the table as Duke explored the cabin. The gentle guitar chords of a Carter Family song Cordelia almost recognized filled the air around them.

“Why do you think she did that?”

Cordelia tapped her fingernails against the table. “She needs to feel in control. She doesn’t like when she can’t control what’s going on. When she doesn’t know what’s happening.”

Misty scoffed and leaned back in her chair, reaching down to pet Duke, who had appeared at her side. “So she threatened to kill your cat?”

“I think it was all she thought she was able to do,” Cordelia said quietly. 

Misty bit her lip and nodded.

“So… I don’t want to impose or anything,” she told Misty, putting a hand over hers. “I don’t want you to feel like you  _ have _ to take care of him. I just thought --”

“Cordelia.” Misty interrupted her with a smile. “Don’t worry about it. I’m happy to take care of him.”

“Yeah?”

Misty turned her hand over beneath Cordelia’s, gently cupping her palm. “Yeah.”

They sat in silence, staring into each other’s eyes. Cordelia considered just how  _ lovely _ Misty was. Beyond her physical beauty (and she certainly was beautiful), love poured out of her like sunlight on warm stones, surrounding her in a kind of radiant aura that put all of Cordelia’s worries at ease. She didn’t understand why Misty was such an outcast. How did people like Madeleine, who called her crazy, called her stupid, fail to see the light inside her?

Misty smiled at Cordelia, and she couldn’t tell if it was just the blue of her eyes, but it looked almost like she was about to cry.

The moment ended when Duke Ellington suddenly jumped up onto the table between them. “Oh!” Misty exclaimed, hands flying up to frame his face. 

Cordelia laughed and pulled her hand back from where it had once rested on Misty’s. “He does that sometimes,” she said. “Get used to it. He’ll knock everything off your table.”

Misty still had that same sad smile on her face as she scooped him up. He was remarkably compliant, a rag doll going limp in her arms, and when she laid him down on her bed he stayed there. Cordelia remembered the night she’d spent here, sharing a bed with Misty, with Salem on Gloria’s bed next to them. Duke looked quite at home amidst the grey-green sheets, turning back to look at Cordelia with a satisfied expression on his face. She smiled at him and glanced back at Misty. “I’m going to miss him so much.”

“You can come back any time,” Misty offered. “Even if I’m not here. You can just come say hello.”

“Oh, I will,” she promised. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“Good. I like having you around.”

“You mean that?”

Misty stared at her, incredulous. “Of course, Cordelia.”

She fidgeted with her fingers, scraping at the nail of her thumb in an attempt to pull it off cleanly. “Even if I won’t go out with you in public?”

Misty huffed out a laugh. “Even if. Though I was promised a trip to the diner.”

“I know,” Cordelia admitted. “Listen, Misty, I’m really sorry. I’m not sure why I’m so weird about it.”

“Well, we went over it last time, didn’t we?” Misty was trying to keep her tone light, joking, but Cordelia could hear the hurt behind it. “You don’t want people to think we’re…”

“Yeah.”

“Then let’s set a date,” Misty decided, slapping her palm down on the table. “When are you available?”

“I’m… not sure, honestly. My father told me this summer would be the time I start working at the flower shop.”

“Well, when are you working? Your shop’s not far from Spalding’s. We can meet there when you’re done one day.”

“I suppose,” said Cordelia, still hesitant despite the many conversations they’d had about this. “He hasn’t told me when I’ll be working yet. I’m set to start on Monday.”

Misty nodded and reached over to pet Duke Ellington, who was stretched out on his side on the mattress. “Well, whenever you figure it out. Just… give me a call.”

“I’ll come right over,” she promised.

Misty nodded again, pressing her lips together and avoiding Cordelia’s eyes. “I really appreciate you trying, Delia.”

“Oh, Misty.” Cordelia stood up and rounded the table to sit on the bed next to her. “You’re really wonderful, you know that?”

Misty rolled her bottom lip into her mouth, and this time Cordelia saw a tear escape her eye and drop down onto her shirt sleeve. Wordlessly she reached out and took the hand Misty was using to pet Duke, holding it between her own. She shifted closer and leaned against Misty, placing her head on Misty’s shoulder. Misty did the same, knocking her head against Cordelia’s. Without letting go of Cordelia’s hand she pulled Duke Ellington over Cordelia, eliciting an angry noise from him before he settled across Misty’s lap.

“I should be getting home.”

Misty swallowed. “Okay.”

Cordelia tilted her head so that she was looking at Misty’s face. At such a short distance she could see every freckle on her cheek, every tiny hair on her nose illuminated by the glow of sunlight in the window. Misty stole a glance towards her but didn’t move her head an inch. Cautiously Cordelia reached up and pressed her mouth to Misty’s cheekbone, feeling her smooth skin beneath her lips. Misty took in a breath through her nose but gave no other indication that she’d even registered the kiss until she gently squeezed Cordelia’s hand a few seconds later.

Cordelia eased herself out of the embrace and stood up, but found herself pulled back by Misty’s hand. When she turned back, Misty’s eyes were full of something unrecognizable.

“I love you,” she said, her voice thick and raw.

Cordelia smiled. “I love you too.”

Misty shook her head. “I  _ love  _ you.” There was a desperation in it.

The words reached halfway across the space between them, and Cordelia tried to puzzle out what Misty meant by the emphasis, but she couldn’t. She just squeezed Misty’s hand one more time, let it fall, and pushed open the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song: "game to lose" by i'm with her


	12. seeger said the seasons have their time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an old friend surprises cordelia while she's working in her family's floral business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mfw i lose all motivation for this project. sorry guys. i'm just gonna... keep posting chapters? i have four left after this one before i'll have to Start Writing again (which might be in april, might be earlier. not sure).
> 
> anyway, enjoy.

Cordelia drummed her fingers on the wooden countertop and gazed out the open door of the flower shop. As it turned out, she needn’t have worried about feeling bored or idle -- her father had her working eight hours a day, opening the shop in the morning and closing it in the early afternoon. Then, of course, she was to come straight home and help her father in the field or her mother in the dining room, depending on who needed her most. 

For most of her life she’d known in an abstract sense that summer was their busiest season, but now she knew it in her body, in the way her fingers cramped from making bouquets, in the way her feet ached from standing all day. And the  _ people. _ Cordelia had never been particularly outgoing, but she had always been polite and courteous, especially towards adults. Now that she interacted with so many customers on a daily basis, however, she found herself resenting every pair of shoes she saw come through the door. It wasn’t even that people were rude -- most everyone in the small town of Saint-Urbain knew Cordelia or her father -- but she hated the new, downright awkward experience of providing services for others in exchange for money. The work was fairly easy: organize a bouquet out of flowers the customers choose, write down what’s missing if there’s anything, fill phone or mail orders when you have a moment.

Was it  _ boring? _ Not exactly. The in-between moments were boring, stretches of several minutes when she didn’t have orders to fill or customers to greet, but mostly it just felt -- pointless. Nearly every customer chose a combination of the same half dozen varieties, though they carried almost thirty. For once in her life, Cordelia wished someone would come in and ask, “What would  _ you _ want?”

Cordelia was so wrapped up in her self-pitying daydream that she almost didn’t see a pair of brown oxfords cross the threshold of the shop. Snapping up her head to greet the customer, she found herself looking into the eyes of one Marie Laveau.

“Hello, Cordelia,” she said, as if they’d hardly spoken to each other in their lives.

“Marie,” Cordelia responded. “Good to, um. See you.”

Marie’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t realize you worked at the shop.” She moved to examine the bunches of baby’s breath gathered in buckets on the left wall.

“I’m new,” said Cordelia. “Or, I mean -- new to here. This is new. I haven’t…”

“I get it.” Marie glanced back to Cordelia and smiled, saving her from floundering any longer. “It’s nice that you have something to do now that school is done.”

Cordelia nodded. “Right. Are you, um -- are you working? What are you doing?”  _ Here, _ Cordelia wanted to finish.  _ What in God’s name are you doing  _ here, _ thinking you can just waltz right in like you didn’t treat me like the dirt on your shoes for two years? Like we weren’t best friends before Madeleine came in and ruined everything? Like you -- _

“Ah, I’m not really doing anything,” Marie chuckled, shaking Cordelia out of her reverie. “Mostly helping my mother take care of the twins. Next fall I think I’ll try and get a job somewhere.”

Cordelia nodded, not really knowing what to say. 

“So.”

“Oh, right -- what do you need help with?”

“Yes, well. It’s my parents’ wedding anniversary next week, and my father sent me to get a bouquet for her. Wants a woman’s eye, he said. Though I don’t know the first thing about flowers.”

“That’s fine.” Cordelia smiled. “We have these premade bouquets if you’d like to just pick one up, or I can arrange a custom one for you. That’ll cost more,” she warned.

“I’m not worried about payment,” she said. (That’s right, Cordelia remembered, Monsieur Laveau was some kind of corporate lawyer in Baie-Saint-Paul.) “And anyway it’s my mother. God knows she deserves something a little special.”

“A custom order, then?” Cordelia pulled out the yellow pad she used to record orders and plucked her pen out of its cup.

“I think so, yes.”

“What would you like?”

Marie blinked several times. “I’m not sure.”

“D’you have any idea how long they’ve been married?”

“Oh, my. Twenty years?”

“Asters,” Cordelia murmured, moving out from behind the counter. “I think we still have some, let me look.”

“Asters?”

“It’s traditional,” she explained. “Roses for fifteen, irises for twenty-five. Of course if they haven’t been married  _ exactly _ twenty years it’ll be different, but it’s the same idea.”

“You sure know your flowers,” Marie remarked, watching her bustle about the shop, picking up some orange lilies and a bundle of the baby’s breath on her way back to the counter.

“Oh.” Cordelia paused and laid her hands flat on the counter, looking down at the blooms she’d brought to the table. “I suppose.”

“It’s very impressive. You just pulled ‘asters’ out of thin air like it was nothing.”

“I… just like reading about flowers,” she admitted. “Their meanings.”

“And what do asters mean?” asked Marie.

Cordelia shrugged. “Just… ‘I love you.’ And, a kind of, ‘take care of yourself for me.’”

“Hm.” Marie pursed her lips and regarded Cordelia seriously. “And the lilies?”

“Honor. Respect for someone as your equal.”

“I quite like that.” Marie’s lips curled up in a smile. “How do you know all of this?”

“My parents got me a book for my birthday, oh, seven years ago. I’ve practically memorized it,” she joked as she began to measure out the flowers and cut them to the proper height.

“All this time? And I never knew?”

Cordelia’s eyes widened. She took a breath. It was the first time Marie had acknowledged their friendship in years. “I guess I just don’t talk about it much.”

“It’s really interesting.”

“What happened?” Cordelia asked suddenly, putting down the flowers and looking Marie in the eye. “Did I do something wrong?”

Marie sighed. “No, Cordelia. I think we just grew apart. People do that, you know.”

“I  _ miss _ you, Marie.” Cordelia winced at just how desperate and whiny she sounded.

But Marie didn’t laugh at her, just pressed her lips together and took a soft breath in. “I miss you too. We’ve just become such different people.”

“What’s different about us?” She couldn’t keep the anger out of her voice any more than she could keep the tears out of her eyes. “I feel the same.”

“I think that’s just it,” said Marie.  _ “I’ve _ changed.  _ You _ haven’t.”

“Oh.”

She bit her lip and ducked her head, squinting over the half-made bouquet in order to prevent her traitorous tears from falling on the delicate petals.

“I don’t mean that in a bad way,” Marie said quickly, but of course she did. How else could someone mean something like that?

“No, of course not.” Cordelia knew she was being sarcastic, even mean, but she couldn’t help it. It was as if all the resentment of the past few years, every joke made at her expense, every time she’d watched Marie disappear with Madeleine after school when she and Cordelia used to walk home together, had been slowly plugging a hole in her artery. She could hardly breathe for all the hurt in her heart, and now she felt like she was finally trying to tread water. “It’s like you said. You’ve changed.”

“I guess I have,” said Marie, more to herself than anything else.

Cordelia finished cutting up the bouquet and carefully wrapped it in newspaper, trying it with a piece of twine and handing it to Marie. “Here you go.”

“How much?”

“Fifteen dollars.”

Marie nodded and pulled out a crisp twenty-dollar bill from the pocket of her skirt. “You can keep the change,” she said, pressing it onto the counter and sliding it towards Cordelia. “It’s a really beautiful bouquet. Thank you.”

“Of course,” said Cordelia, her voice flat and tight as a rubber band. “Glad you like it.”

“I  _ love _ it,” Marie responded, and either she hadn’t noticed Cordelia’s simmering anger or she was deliberately choosing to ignore it. Cordelia guessed it was the latter. “And I know my mother will too.”

Cordelia nodded, eyes already looking away from Marie as if she were the least interesting thing in the world. She waited for Marie to turn and leave, to get the  _ hell _ out of Cordelia’s shop, out of Cordelia’s  _ life, _ but she didn’t. She just stood in front of her, dark eyes boring into her cheek.

“Would you want to hang out with Madeleine and me sometime?”

Surprised, Cordelia abandoned her cold-shoulder plan to regard Marie curiously. “You and Madeleine?”

Marie shrugged. “She’s really not that bad, Cordelia. I know you never liked her, but she’s nice. She’s funny.”

“I --” Cordelia paused, and found she wasn’t sure whether she really wanted to or not. “I don’t know. Not… soon.”

“Okay.” The other girl nodded and put a hand on the counter between them. “You know where to find me, though. Give me a ring. I know you’re working hard this summer, but… I also want you to have some fun.”

Cordelia looked at Marie’s slender hand on the counter, clean and soft-looking as if she’d lived her whole life wearing gloves. As silly as it was, Cordelia knew she was was jealous of them, of how grown-up they looked. They were hands that somebody might want to hold, to kiss. Cordelia’s own hands were -- not rough, exactly, but clumsy. Small. Stubby. 

Upon realizing that she’d spent far too long staring at Marie’s hands instead of answering her, Cordelia flushed and peered back up at her. “I don’t need your pity,” she spat.

Marie was taken aback at that, and so was Cordelia. She hadn’t meant to be so rude. Honestly, she hadn’t known what she was going to say until she said it. “I’m sorry,” she breathed, bringing her hands up to cover her eyes. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“I don’t pity you, Cordelia. I envy you.”

“ _ Envy _ me? Whatever for?”

From between her so-despised fingers Cordelia saw Marie shrug. “You don’t seem to care about what anybody thinks. You’re just -- very sure of yourself.”

Dropping her hands, Cordelia let out a laugh, small and sharp. “I’m not really sure of anything.”

Marie tilted her head and smiled. “You do a good job of hiding it.”

Cordelia opened her mouth to say “thank you,” but the words stuck in her throat. She dropped her gaze from Marie’s face and nodded.

“I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah.”

Although she wasn’t looking at Marie she could so clearly picture the small smile on her former best friend’s face, the way her whole mouth pushed up and forwards, the way her eyes crinkled at the inner corners. “Bye, Cordelia.”

“Goodbye, Marie.”

She stayed like that, standing still against the counter, until she watched the door swing open and shut one final time. Letting out the breath she’d been holding, she leaned forward and rested her forehead on the counter.

“Fuck,” she groaned aloud. 

She didn’t realize she’d cursed until after the fact. It was the first time she’d done it anywhere someone might hear her. There was no one else in the shop, of course, but the word was in the air, hanging there like flower pollen.

She turned her head to the side, rested her cheek against the wood, and said it again, this time with stronger intent. “Fuck.”

Was this what Marie meant by “changing?” Was the difference between a girl and a young woman the ability to say four-letter words? It was a stupidly simple explanation, but already Cordelia felt different, older. She felt more  _ powerful. _

That power, unfortunately, seemed to shrink out of her as she saw her father round the corner outside and come into the shop. “Afternoon, Cordelia,” he said, barely looking at her. His words were already slurred, and he seemed to sway on his feet.

“Hi, Daddy,” she responded. “Did you drive here?”

He shook his head. “Your old man’s a lot of things, Cordelia, but he’s not stupid.”

Cordelia bit her lip at his sharp tone, then saw just how red his face was, smelled the sweat and the heat coming off of his tanned skin. “Did you  _ run?” _

“No,” he said. “Walked fast. How’d it go?”

“Fine.” Cordelia shrugged and moved out from behind the counter, allowing him to inspect the cash register, though he made no move to do so. “Marie Laveau just came in with a custom order.”

“Mm.” He leaned over the counter, hands pressing into the dark wood, eyes drooping closed. “Sorry, Cordelia. ’M too -- too --” He waved a hand over his face as if it listed exactly how many drinks he’d had (and in a way, it did). “Just can’t do much right now. I know you wanted the afternoon off, but…”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Cordelia had planned to visit Misty in the afternoon, even -- finally! -- go to Spalding’s with her, but she knew her father would be totally useless in this state. Her body flared red with resentment. “I can stay here.”

“Thank you, Cordelia.” Ambroise exhaled and lolled his head forward, clapping a heavy hand on Cordelia’s shoulder. “I’m going to go walk some of this off.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

“Can I have a hug?” Pushing himself off the counter, he spread his arms wide and bore down on Cordelia, leaving her little choice but to wrap her arms back around him. “I love you, Cordelia,” he muttered, his breath hot on the crown of her head.

“I love you, too.”

She slid her way out of the embrace, leaving him to lurch his way out the door.

Cordelia was left mostly alone for the rest of the afternoon, annoyingly enough. Each time she contemplated closing early and hightailing it to Misty’s, another customer would come in and demand assistance, ruining her plan. In between customers she found herself doing the same thing she always had: simply sitting and staring out the window. She wished she had a friend to talk to, or at the very least a book to read.

And  _ Misty. _ She hadn’t told Misty she’d planned on coming, worried of something exactly like this happening, but she hadn’t seen the girl in nearly a month after promising to tell her when she got her schedule. The work had so wholly consumed her, swallowing every minute of time she had at home on top of the hours spent in the shop, that she’d hardly had a moment to think for herself.

Except for now, she realized. These long, floating minutes in between making corsages and answering the phones. And, God, if only she had Misty’s phone number. She could call her right now and tell her the whole story, apologize for her neglectfulness.

As it was she could only stand behind the counter and ponder how in the world she’d ended up here. Just a few short months ago her mother had insisted she wasn’t capable of manning the shop, implying that she was unintelligent by nature. Now, of course, she claimed Cordelia was a nuisance to have in the house, and that it was better she was in the shop and far away from Fiona and Ambroise. It was just as well for Cordelia, who was eager to get out from under her mother’s cruel thumb. Still, she wondered if either of them truly appreciated her contributions, or if they merely humored her efforts in an attempt to get her out of the house (and out of their hair).

At least she knew she was of some use here when her father was drinking. Lately there were more days where he came home already wasted than there were not, and Cordelia worked hard to pick up his slack. Usually she didn’t mind much -- the drinking made her uncomfortable, the way it made him hot and angry and dead-eyed and slow-moving in equal measures -- but today was  _ different. _ Today she was finally going to make good on her promise to Misty and take her to Spalding’s. Well -- she had  _ intended _ to do so, but her father had ruined those plans.

_ How utterly free girls like Marie must feel,  _ she thought,  _ able to simply leave the house and go wherever they choose whenever they desire. _ Cordelia had once had that freedom, she supposed, last summer and fall when she’d spent nearly every day with Misty. So maybe Marie had been wrong --  _ Cordelia _ was the one who had changed, stepped up into responsibility that Marie didn’t yet have. 

Though that explanation didn’t seem quite right either. 

So perhaps everything had changed and nothing had changed, all at once, and all Cordelia could do was watch time pass around her like fast-flowing water and try, vainly, to run in step with the tide.

  
  


In the minutes leading up to four-thirty Cordelia stared intently at the clock, already aching to be back on her bike and on her way home. It was a Tuesday, and not many customers came in this close to closing time anyway, so she’d already begun closing up the shop. All that was left to do was bring in the sandwich board from outside, count the cash in the register, and lock the front door; all tasks that she saved for when the work day was “officially” over.

Finally,  _ finally, _ the minute hand ticked over to the bottom of the clock face and Cordelia popped open the register in the same breath. Within minutes, it seemed, she was back out in the bright sunshine and mounting her bicycle. The ride back home wasn’t long or particularly difficult, so she took her time, zigzagging across the road when she was sure there were no cars coming from either direction. By the time she got home it was nearly five. She knew her mother would be cross with her, but she hoped whatever her father had done would be the focus of her anger tonight.

As it turned out, he was already home by the time she walked in the door, tipping Cordelia off to his presence by a loud slam of the bedroom door down the hall. Fiona was sitting stock still at the kitchen table, gripping a glass of water tightly in one hand and staring at her empty plate.

“Hi, Mama,” Cordelia said, quietly, not wanting to break whatever fragile semblance of peace hung in the house.

“There’s some chicken in the pot,” Fiona responded without looking up at her.

“Oh.” She stepped around the table, not going within several feet of her mother just in case, and peered down into the crock pot resting on the stove. “Thank you.”

Fiona said nothing.

“Can I go eat this outside?”

Fiona huffed out a laugh and shook her head. “You and your goddamn sunsets. Yes, Cordelia, you can go eat it outside.”

Cordelia clenched her teeth together and lifted the chicken onto her plate. Without another word she walked out the back door and took off running towards the orchard, covering the chicken with one hand so that it wouldn’t slip off.

It had been months since she’d been here to watch the sunset. She settled back into her usual spot and tucked into her chicken breast, which had by now gone cold. After she was done she stood up to find a suitable nectarine on her favorite tree to pick and eat. There were none within reach, but there was one just a few feet higher at the end of a thick branch. Cordelia stole a glance back at the house, calculating the chances that someone would be able to see her from here. The kitchen window was empty, and the shades to her parents’ bedroom were drawn tightly shut (no doubt to ward off her father’s impending migraine).

Cordelia worried her bottom lip between her teeth and cautiously wrapped her arms around the wide fork of the tree, testing its strength. Misty had climbed up here once, in that first summer that they spent together, but she was lighter on her feet and stronger.

Still. If Cordelia was going to grow up she would have to start somewhere.

Hauling herself up, she stepped up into the tree and suddenly found herself with a view of the whole orchard from above. A sea of soft red and green leaves spread out in all directions, rolling in a soft undulating echo of waves in the breeze. They seemed to glow in the early-evening sunlight. Cordelia’s breath caught in her throat at the sheer beauty of it, and she felt herself swaying among the branches herself. Thankfully, she’d been holding fast to the nearest branches, bark digging into the palms of her hands, and stayed steady on her feet. Slowly she reached out and twisted a fruit off the tree. 

As she took the first bite and closed her eyes she listened to the wind pick up around her, whipping her hair in front of her face. The sun began to slip below the horizon, darkening the color of the insides of Cordelia’s eyelids, and despite all the pain and hurt and fear in her heart her only thought was:  _ How lucky I am, to be alive! _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song: "everything's fine" by jamie drake


	13. some folks have it better, but oh, we’ve got it good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> party time at misty's house!

Summer turned into fall like one long, slow descent into dusk. July bled blue into August and then from blue to pink to orange in September, each day a blur of shopkeeping and bike riding and, whenever she got the chance, climbing that tree she’d always loved. Over time it came to feel like an extension of her own body, wrapping her in its leaves and limbs, a strange kind of embrace that more often than not left Cordelia with some kind of scrape or scratch on her arms and legs (and, once, a three-inch gash caused by a broken branch that jutted out next to her left hip). Her parents, for their part, mostly stayed out of her way, her mother intruding every so often to enumerate her various failings and her father inevitably getting too drunk to work every time she’d planned on visiting Misty.

As it was she didn’t get more than an hour to herself until early October, when business at the shop finally slowed down (at least until the holidays) and Ambroise finally pulled himself together enough to take over for her when he’d promised. She’d sped home on her bike and impatiently helped her mother finish cutting a basket of lavender, hands nearly shaking with anticipation. Finally Fiona, eyeing the sloppiness of her work and the furtive glances she stole out the window, sighed and said, “My God, Cordelia, you’re making a mess of these. You want to get out of here so badly, get out.”

Cordelia’s throat tightened at the sharpness of her words, but realized she couldn’t be bothered to be angry or embarrassed for long as she swung her coat around her shoulders and nearly slammed the door in her haste to get _out._

The sun was already sinking behind the trees by the time she got to Misty’s. Cordelia noticed the was door already open, the light blocked by a tall figure in a red pea coat. As she stepped closer she saw the ripples of frizzy orange hair (nearly the same color as the coat) fanning out over the person’s shoulders, and she broke into a grin as Madame Snow turned around to see who was behind her.

“Cordelia!” she cooed, reaching out to embrace her. Cordelia wrapped herself in Madame Snow’s arms, resting her cheek against the rough wool of the coat.

“Evening, Madame,” said Cordelia softly as they parted.

“Oh, Cordelia.” Madame Snow shook her head. “You’re not my student anymore. Don’t call me that. It’s Myrtle to you, now that you’re a young lady.”

Cordelia breathed out a laugh. “Myrtle. Right. Okay.” 

What was it with adults and first names? And at this house, too? After all, the last time she’d had this conversation had been with Gloria when she’d stayed over. Maybe, Cordelia supposed, there was just something strange about this place -- something that blurred the boundaries between adulthood and childhood, friendship and that strange way students interact with their teachers outside of school.

Then again, everything about Misty’s life could be called strange.

Before she could think on it any longer, Myrtle stepped back into the house and moved to the side. “Would you like to come in?”

Cordelia peered past her into Misty’s house. Gloria was standing hunched over the table, sweeping bits of leaves and stems off of it with an old rag. Behind her, Misty scrubbed a bottle at the sink, humming along to the music that wafted up from the record player next to her. (Without even having to listen to the music, Cordelia knew exactly who it was, of course.)

Suddenly something brushed up against her ankles, and Cordelia looked down to see Duke Ellington weaving between her legs, butting his head against her shin. 

“Oh, hello, you!” she purred, bending over and reaching down to scratch between his ears. “I missed you, baby.”

“Hello yourself,” said Misty, whose feet had appeared in the doorway where Myrtle had been. “I missed you, too.”

Cordelia straightened up to meet her gaze, those glassy blue eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun over her shoulder. The golds and reds of the sunset lay across her skin like stretches of watercolor paint. She looked positively stunning, a statue of a Greek god, an oil painting. She smiled at Cordelia, corners of her mouth pulling up and back just slightly, and Cordelia felt her face growing warm.

“You’re welcome to come in,” said Misty, who seemed not to notice Cordelia’s frozen stare. “Mama and I are just cleaning up.” She stepped back, allowing Cordelia to cross the threshold.

“Thank you,” Cordelia replied, following Misty into the house. Gloria glanced up from her work and winked at her, smiling.

“It’s good to see you,” Misty rumbled next to her, low enough that only Cordelia could hear it. “What took you so long?”

“I’m sorry, Misty.” Cordelia shook her head. “My dad has me working at the flower shop all day, and he _says_ he’s going to cover for me but he ends up just getting drunk, and --”

“Hey, it’s alright.” Misty reached between them and grasped Cordelia’s arm. “You’re here now.”

“I missed you the whole time,” said Cordelia.

“I know,” said Misty. She slid her hand down Cordelia’s arm and curled her pinky around Cordelia’s. At a normal volume she asked, “What brings you here?”

“Besides you?” Cordelia curled her pinky tight, locking their hands together. “I don’t know. I was thinking maybe we could go to the diner.”

Misty’s whole face lit up. “Oh gosh, _really?_ I would love that, Cordelia.”

“Now hold on a minute, Mist,” said Gloria from across the room. “Don’t you remember what tonight is?”

Misty blinked and bit her lip. Then, eyes widening, she slapped her forehead with her free hand. “Oh, _shoot,_ I’m sorry, Mama.” 

Gloria laughed. “It’s alright. You two go have your fun. Myrtle, you’ll stay and keep me company, won’t you?”

“No,” said Misty firmly. “It’s your _birthday,_ Mama. Delia and I’ll go another time. Right, Delia?”

Cordelia thought about just how long it had taken her to have a few hours to herself. “Uh -- ”

“And this way the four of us can stay and celebrate together!” She led Cordelia to the table and pulled out the other chair for her to sit down. “Cordelia, you’re fine to stay for dinner, right?”

“Um -- yes,” said Cordelia, sitting down across from Gloria. “I mean, I didn’t tell my parents, but they won’t mind. They probably won’t realize I’m gone, anyway.”

Behind her Myrtle made a noise of disapproval.

“Myrtle, you’ll stay, won’t you?” asked Misty.

“Wouldn’t dream of missing your mother’s birthday dinner, chickadee.” Although Cordelia couldn’t see her, she could practically feel Misty beaming behind her, the light radiating from her and filling the room around them.

“How’s that stew looking, honey?”

“Great. A few more minutes.”

“Lovely. Why don’t you get some drinks for our guests?”

“I can help,” said Cordelia, standing up and turning towards Misty. “You don’t have to --”

“Sit _down,_ ” Misty growled playfully. “You’re a guest.”

“I know, but --”

“But nothing. You want lemonade or plain water?”

Resigned, Cordelia sighed and slumped back into her chair, twisting around so she could face Misty. “Just water would be fine, thanks.”

“Just water?”

Cordelia bit her lip. “Actually, lemonade would be lovely.”

Misty smiled. “Thought so,” she said, pouring a glass for Cordelia and one for herself. “Myrtle?”

Myrtle shook her head. “I’m quite all right, love, thank you.”

“Come sit down, Myrtle,” said Gloria, rising from her chair. “Misty and I will take the bed.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly!”

“You could, and you will. The bed’s comfortable, honestly. You’re doing me a favor.”

Myrtle let out a huff and took the seat Gloria had just been in. Duke Ellington immediately leapt up onto her lap, and she let out a surprised laugh.

“He must like you,” Cordelia noted. “He only lets people he trusts hold him.”

“Really?” said Myrtle, gazing into Duke’s dark eyes. “I’m very honored.”

Suddenly a pale arm was reaching out to place a bowl in front of Cordelia on the table. She followed the line of the outstretched limb up to Misty’s smiling face. Misty winked at her, and without knowing why Cordelia felt her fingers freeze up, felt her eyes widen just slightly. “Hope you like it,” she said before heading back to the stove to get her own bowl. Gloria set one down in front of Myrtle and sat down gingerly on Misty’s bed.

“Misty tells me you’ve been working in your family’s flower shop,” she said, pointing her spoon at Cordelia.

Cordelia bowed her head in acknowledgement. “I am -- I have, yes.”

“Do you like it?”

“I --” _God,_ these adults and their _questions._ “I like it enough. It’s an excuse to get out of the house.”

“Maybe I’ll stop by sometime and say hi,” said Misty, coming around from behind Cordelia and sitting down next to her mother. “That okay?”

“Sure, that’d be lovely,” said Cordelia.

“I’m glad to hear you’ve been busy now that you’re not in my class anymore,” said Myrtle, “though I do wish you’d come visit me sometime.”

Cordelia whipped her head around to look at Myrtle. “I didn’t want to… intrude…”

“You’re never intruding, darling.” She reached out and rested her hand on Cordelia’s. Her skin was papery, the back of her hand dotted with freckles. Cordelia felt the strange urge to pull at the loose skin of her knuckles and see how far it would stretch.

Instead she smiled politely and took another bite of soup.

“Perhaps Cordelia and I could have dinner at Myrtle’s sometime,” said Misty, and Myrtle nodded emphatically.

“We never did have that Hanukkah dinner,” she said. “I’d love to have you both. Gloria, you too, of course.”

“I’m afraid I’ll be out of town for most of December,” Gloria sighed. “But the two of you absolutely can -- and should -- go.”

“Where are you going?” asked Cordelia.

Gloria bit her lip and seemed to be calculating something in her head. She kept her gaze fixed between Cordelia and Myrtle.

Hastily Cordelia added, “That is, if you don’t mind -- I mean -- if it’s --”

Gloria shook her head. “I’m just not sure how to explain it. It’s… complicated business.”

“Anything I should be worried about?” asked Myrtle. She was smiling with a sort of uneasy placidity, as if she and Gloria knew something the younger girls did not.

“No, no. Just… oh, one of my business trips that I go on every so often.”

If Misty had any idea what her mother was talking about, she gave no indication.

After several seconds of uncomfortable silence, Gloria said, “Why don’t you go put a record on?”

Misty nodded, slowly, still looking at her mother with her lips slightly pursed, but she stood up and drifted over to the record player. 

“Anybody want more soup while I’m up?” she asked. Gloria (who, Cordelia noted, was a remarkably fast eater) was the only one who accepted the offer, reaching out to pass her bowl to Misty as she sifted through the records. She selected a longer one, a compilation, Cordelia assumed, and sat back down. The gentle twang of A.P’s guitar and Sara and Maybelle’s soft voices seemed to diffuse the tension, Gloria’s strange demeanor a few seconds ago forgotten for now.

“Funny, that my birthday should fall on the full moon,” said Gloria, smiling at Cordelia. “Perhaps you’d like to join me for a ritual.”

“Oh, Mama, I don’t think Cordelia wants to do that.”

“I’m just asking, Misty. She can make her own decision.”

Cordelia cleared her throat. “What exactly goes on at these… rituals?”

Gloria’s eyes seemed to sparkle. “Well, the full moon is incredibly powerful -- it’s at the peak of its monthly cycle, so to speak. Consider it like the moon’s menstrual period.”

“ _Mama!_ ”

“Well, it is! Just as transformative and -- and -- illuminating as that time of the month.” She laughed at Misty’s mortified expression. “Oh, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Every woman in this room goes through it.”

“Speak for yourself, darling,” drawled Myrtle.

“Yes, well.” She laughed again, a bright, tinkling sound like wind chimes. She and Misty had the same laugh, Cordelia noticed.

“To start off the ritual I like to just lie outside for a few hours and communicate with the moon. Tell her my secrets.” She leaned in to whisper loudly, “Sometimes I touch myself while I’m doing it. Though never when others are joining me, of course.”

Cordelia recalled the first time she’d met Gloria, lying on the ground outside their house. “Oh,” she said, because she was not really sure what else to say.

Gloria nodded. “Then I take some herbs -- whatever I’ve got on hand, really, though I try to give each one a meaning -- and, oh, do _something_ with them. Burn them, eat them, soak them in water. It depends how I’m feeling. I don’t much like a routine, you see.”

“That sounds… nice,” said Cordelia, who very much liked routines.

“So you’ll stay?” she asked. The eagerness on her face made her look several decades younger. Much like Misty, really. They had the same smile. 

“Oh… I’m not sure…” It all sounded very foreign to Cordelia, the kind of thing her mother would scoff at and denounce as _utterly ridiculous,_ if not completely depraved and obscene, and while she didn’t think her parents cared about her absence yet, they likely would soon.

“Well, there’s another full moon at the end of the month. Isn’t that interesting? A blue moon, they’re starting to call it.”

Misty let out a forceful sigh. “Mama, Cordelia doesn’t want to do your full moon ritual with you.”

“And why wouldn’t she? It’s a wonderful opportunity for a young woman to get more in touch with her body and spirit.”

“It’s just plain _weird,_ is all. Cordelia doesn’t need to know all of your… habits.”

Gloria hummed quietly. “Well, I apologize for bringing up that particular element of my spirituality, but I don’t see how a full moon ritual is inappropriate to talk about at the dinner table. You girls are nearly adults. You can handle it.”

“Just because we’re older doesn’t mean we need to hear you talking about this bullshit at a _dinner party!”_

Cordelia gulped and glanced at Myrtle. The older woman was looking curiously back at her, her eyes slightly narrowed and her lips, strangely, turned up at the corners. 

“Misty, darling, we must erase all constructions of _weird_ and _normal_ if we are to move forward in this world. And though I appreciate your rebellion against traditional manners I would appreciate you not calling my beliefs ‘bullshit.’”

“Why can’t _you_ ever be normal for just one _day?”_ Misty cried, rising from the bed. The front of her body bumped against the bowl on the table in front of her. Soup sloshed over the top as it rocked back and forth. Cordelia wondered if she should reach out and steady it. In the end there was no need; it wobbled to a stop on its own, leaving everything in the shack still and silent.

“Misty,” Gloria began, reaching out a tentative hand towards her, but Misty, disgusted, spun on her heel and pushed her way out of the house. After the door stopped swinging on its hinges, Gloria sighed and dropped her head into her hands.

“I’ll go check on her,” said Cordelia, scooting her chair back to stand up.

“You don’t have to,” said Gloria. “It’ll be dark soon. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“It’s all right. I want to go.”

Gloria chewed on her bottom lip and nodded. “If you don’t find her, you can just… come back here. Or go home.”

“Okay. Thank you for dinner.”

“Thank you for coming.”

“Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.” 

Gloria avoided her gaze as she left the shack and started down the path to Salem’s grave by the river.

As Cordelia emerged from the trees she could feel Misty there before she saw her. The feeling of her presence was unmistakable, like a storm on the horizon, and full of just as much rage. She was sitting with her back to Cordelia among the roots of the tree where, all those months ago, they’d seen the swallows.

“Hey,” Cordelia said, tentative, quiet. She wasn’t sure Misty heard her, but the crunching of the earth under her feet would have alerted her if her words hadn’t. Still, Misty didn’t turn around.

She sat down next to Misty, just as she had when Salem died, and Misty made no move to acknowledge her presence, just as she had when Salem died. Misty had picked up a stick and was scraping it against the dirt, digging little furrows like rows of tilled soil. For a while they just watched the stick move against the dirt, bumping against little rocks along its way, occasionally tearing up the root of some tiny clover or weed.

It was Misty who spoke first.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

Cordelia blinked. “Oh, it’s not -- that’s nothing. You should see my parents.”

Misty laughed, a short, biting thing, and pressed the stick harder into the ground.

“I don’t think of you and your mother as… weird, you know. Or different.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I don’t!”

“You do. It’s okay. Everyone does. How could you not?” Her voice was too loud, too bright. The stick bent and snapped in half. Misty threw one of the pieces as hard as she could and gripped the other in her fingers. “I’m just so tired of being -- _alone_ out here, Delia. I’m so alone. It’s just me and Mama and whoever’s coming over to see her. And you, when you’re not busy. But you’re always busy.”

“I’m sor --”

“Don’t apologize, my God. It’s not your fault. I’m just ranting. I’m sorry. God, I’m so angry and I don’t know why.” She banged her fist against the side of her knee, hard, and then swiveled around to look at Cordelia. “Do you ever just have so much of every kind of feeling inside you that you’re not sure how or when it’ll come out?”

Cordelia opened her mouth, inhaled, and couldn’t figure out exactly what to say.

Misty didn’t wait for a response. “I don’t know what to make of myself when I’m not around you,” she admitted. She was quieter now, her voice barely louder than the rustle of the trees. “Though you’re here now, and I still don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s like…” Misty sighed and shifted away from her, turned to look at her. “You’re the only thing that seems to matter to me. But then you’re right here in front of me and I just -- I don’t know. It’s like I’m staring into the sun. Deer in the headlights. You know?”

Cordelia studied her face. Her eyes were glassy, as if she were about to cry, and her mouth hung open. Staring at Cordelia like this she looked rather like a lost dog.

“I suppose I do,” she murmured, and found it was true.

Misty turned away, then, to look at the raised mound of earth between them and the river. It had smoothed out considerably over a year, and mushrooms and wildflowers had begun to sprout up over it. But the shape of it was still there, and even if it wasn’t Cordelia had a feeling Misty would know exactly where to look.

“It’s gotten easier,” said Misty. “I wasn’t sure it would.”

Cordelia was silent.

“It’s stupid. He was just a dog --”

“He was your friend,” Cordelia interrupted, softly. Misty looked at her. “Before I was. Before… anyone else was.”

Misty considered this for a moment. “Yeah,” she said. “I guess he was.”

After several breaths in and out Cordelia said, “I’m glad I came today.”

When Misty didn’t respond, Cordelia reached out and grabbed her hand, just as she had when Salem died.

“I miss you when I don’t see you,” she said. “I do. Very much.”

Misty squeezed her hand.

“This winter,” she promised, “we shall see each other more often. I’ll be working less.”

Misty nodded.

“I should go. Come on, it’s getting dark.” She stood up, pulling Misty with her.

“Wait,” said Misty. “Watch the sunset with me?”

Cordelia could hardly deny her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song: "ain't that fine" by i'm with her.

**Author's Note:**

> for lane, my partner in crime. i love you, gay ass.


End file.
